I’m Jake, and I never thought I’d be stuck in a downpour, pleading for a ride, but fatherhood changes you fast. My wife, Amy, was in labor, and I was 30 miles away at a client pitch when the hospital called. We’d spent months readying for our daughter, decorating her nursery with star decals and a rocking horse. “Stay close,” Amy said that morning from her hospital bed. “It’s a short meeting,” I replied, sure we had time.
At 2:50 p.m., Nurse Sarah called. “Amy’s in labor—come now.” I bolted, my briefcase banging my leg. My truck was getting fixed, so I’d taken a train. Rain pounded the streets, and no cars stopped. Finally, a black SUV pulled over. “Bless you,” I said, diving in. “Hope Medical Center—my wife’s having a baby.” The driver, a stern guy in his 50s, squinted. “That’s across town.” I begged, “She’s in labor!” He grunted, “Three hundred bucks.” I shoved bills at him.
Traffic was brutal, my calls to Amy unanswered. The hospital said she was moving fast. Every delay killed me. I ditched my soaked jacket, showing my Hope Hornets shirt—a gift from Amy. The driver’s eyes darkened. “Hornets fan?” He swerved to the curb. “Out!” I was floored. “My wife’s giving birth!” His Millwood Marlins sticker gleamed. “My friend died in a fight after the ’98 finals. No Hornets fans.” I pleaded, but he yelled, “Out!” I stumbled into the storm, his tires screeching away.
Alone, I trudged, rain blinding me, taxis ignoring my calls. Then brakes shrieked. His SUV was stopped, the driver slumped, seizing. I ran, kneeling to help, turning him on his side until the seizure passed. He was unconscious but alive, keys in the ignition. I could’ve driven to Amy, but I drove him to Millwood ER instead. Medics took him, and a doctor, hearing my story, gave me his keys. “Silver Jeep, spot 8. Go.” I sped to Hope, reaching Amy’s room at 6:58 p.m. She squeezed my hand, smiling. “You’re here.”
Our daughter was born at 7:46 p.m., tiny and fierce. We wept, holding her. I told Amy the story later. “You saved him?” she said, proud. I checked on the driver, Carl, who was awake. “You didn’t have to help me,” he said, teary. “My friend would’ve hated my anger.” I grinned. “We had a girl.” He later brought a Hornets onesie, sharing stories over tea. Karma’s real—it balances things. Our daughter, Mia, rocks that onesie, and I learned to choose compassion, no matter what.
