That man was nowhere to be found.
Instead, I was looking at a stranger who considered my pregnancy an inconvenience he had endured long enough.
“Ryan, it’s three in the morning.”
“And?”
“It’s freezing outside.”
“Then turn on the heat in the car.”
I put one hand against the wall to steady myself.
“**I’m eight months pregnant.
I can’t sleep properly in a bed anymore, let alone in a car.**”
He let out a frustrated breath.
“Do you think I can sleep properly with you tossing around all night?
You get up every hour.
You sigh.
You move your pillows.
You kick the blankets off, then pull them back.
Every time I finally fall asleep, you’re moving again.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose.”
“I know that, Claire.
That’s what makes it so frustrating.”
The cruelty of those words landed harder than a shout.
