But then my labor began five weeks early.

I was at my parents’ house delivering some paperwork they insisted I bring personally when a sharp pain struck low in my back. Within minutes the contractions intensified, stealing my breath and forcing me to lean against the kitchen counter. I gripped the marble edge and gasped, “Mom… please call 911.”

She barely lifted her eyes from her phone. “Don’t be dramatic, Amelia. First babies take hours. And if this is real, hurry up — I have dinner plans with Claire.”

I turned toward my father, who sat in the den reading his newspaper.

“Dad… please.”

He didn’t even stand. “Your doctor is twenty minutes away. Can’t you just wait?”

Another contraction ripped through me so violently that my knees gave out. Warm fluid ran down my legs. Panic flooded my body. I was shaking, crying, barely able to breathe through the pain, while the two people who were supposed to care the most watched as though I were simply interrupting their evening.

Then, through the ringing in my ears, I heard another sound.

A deep, thunderous chopping noise.

The windows rattled as a helicopter began descending onto my parents’ backyard lawn.

At first my mother assumed it was some neighborhood emergency and actually complained about the noise. My father finally stood, irritated rather than concerned. Through the window I watched the grass flatten beneath powerful wind, flowerbeds bend sideways, and a black helicopter land with stunning precision.

My mother stared at me. “What on earth did you do?”