I barely make it through mine. My voice cracks near the end.
“From now until death, I promise to always stand by your side. To support you and your goals. Even if you burn the cabin down around our ears. I’ll always love you, Tabitha.”
After we exchange the rings, applause erupts. I barely notice as I pull her in for a kiss, soft and full of every hope I have for our future.
Epilogue
Tabitha
Five Years Later
“Let’s go through the checklist one more time.”
I barely contain my groan. I love procedures as much as any other scientist, but this is the fourth time Marshall has wanted to double check our go bag.
“Okay,” I agree.
He shoots a look at me but goes through the list as he unpacks and then repacks the bag one more time. I know he’s worried and needs to feel in control of something. This is our first child and I’m overdue by two weeks.
It makes all our friends laugh that the two most punctual and precise people they know are having a child who is already late. I’ve already made my peace with the likelihood that I will have a type B child. I’m nothing like my own mother and it makes perfect sense to me that my own child would follow suit.
Marshall hasn’t accepted our fate yet.
“Should we pack more diapers?” he asks not looking up from the bag.
“The hospital will have diapers,” I remind him.
“What about another set of clothes? These might be too big,” he says even as he packs another tiny onesie.
I wait for him to finish packing the go bag as patiently as I can. It’s sweet that he’s so worried about us. I’ve been growing another human being for months and he’s done everything he can to make the process more comfortable for me. He’s catered to my weird cravings. He’s helped me through my anxiety and my moments of panic. He was at every appointment and exam.
He's done everything he could to make this easier for me and now there’s nothing else to do but wait.
And we have another list. A list of approved activities thatmighthelp jumpstart the labor. I could spend my time eating spicy foods or stop by the spa for acupuncture, but I have another idea in mind.
“Marshall,” I call when my husband seems determined to go outside and recheck the car seat installation. “Can you help me with this?”
I hold out the bottle of castor oil. One of the Anderson sisters swore that it would induce my labor, but I can’t remember which one. Both had a dozen suggestions each. Regardless of whether it was Betty or Barb who recommended the clear liquid it’s one trick I won’t be trying.
My husband stops halfway out the door to return to where I recline on the couch.
“This is on the list?” he asks skeptically as he looks at the bottle. “Are you sure you want to take this stuff? It smells awful.”
Rather than answer I tug on his hand. He sits down beside me still eyeing the bottle.
“Forget the oil,” I mutter. “It was a ruse.”
His dark brown eyebrow rises as a smile tugs the corners of his mouth up into an easy smile.
“Surely my wife wouldn’t resort to trickery,” he says even as he slides the bottle onto a nearby table.
“Under normal circumstances, no.”
“Is something wrong?” he asks in a teasing tone. He makes no effort to stifle his grin. “Do you need help with something?”
“Marshall.” The word is both a warning and an entreaty.
“Come here,” he says reaching for me.
