Sometimes the people you’d move mountains for are the same ones who hand you a shovel and expect you to keep digging. I learned that lesson at 35, standing in my best friend’s kitchen, staring at a piece of paper that made my stomach twist.
I’ve always been that person. The one who shows up, drops everything, rearranges their life because someone I love needs me. Maybe it’s because I’m single, no kids, or maybe I’ve just been wired that way. That’s how it’s always been with Claire. My best friend since university. More than a decade of late-night confessions, shared heartbreaks, silly inside jokes only we understand. The kind of friendship you think will survive anything.
Even when I moved to England and she stayed in America, we never drifted. We texted daily, FaceTimed weekly. I knew her kids’ favorite bedtime stories. She knew the name of my annoying coworker I ranted about over wine. When she got married, I flew out and played piano at her wedding. When her first baby arrived, I crossed an ocean to help her settle into motherhood. I did the same when her second child came. I was Auntie Maya, happily so.
So when Claire called me this spring, her voice tight with exhaustion and nerves, telling me she was pregnant again and overwhelmed, I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll come. Just say when.” She sighed with relief. “Maya, I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”
By June, we’d planned everything. I’d take two weeks off work, fly in a week before her due date to help, stay another week once the baby arrived. Just like before. Helping where I could, being company, a little bit of calm in the newborn storm.
The day I boarded my flight, I was genuinely excited. Claire and I hadn’t spent real time together in so long. I imagined cozy evenings chatting while the kids slept, sipping tea, venting about life, laughing like we used to.
She met me at the airport with a huge hug and tears. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she kept repeating. The warmth in her voice felt real. But once we got back to her house, something was… off. She seemed jittery, constantly checking her phone, exchanging silent glances with her husband Jordan that I couldn’t quite read.
That evening, after the kids were asleep and we finally had a moment alone, Claire casually dropped a bombshell. “By the way, I’m having the C-section tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.”
“Tomorrow?” I blinked. “I thought you were still a week out?”
“Change of plans,” she shrugged. “The doctor wants to be cautious since it’s my third.”
I was thrown, but tried to stay upbeat. “Okay. Well, I’m here now. We’ll handle it together.”
And we did. I drove her to the hospital, stayed with the kids while Jordan visited, and later cradled her beautiful new daughter. Everything seemed fine. For about 48 hours.Read More Below
