" God, I wish I could do this for you.” “That makes two of us.” She closed her eyes for a moment. Two minutes later she was seized by another one. She panted through it. Jack went to the bathroom and wet a washcloth, going back to her to wipe her brow and neck. “That’s nice,” she said. “You have to wait for John,” he said. “I’m doing the best I can, Jack.” He held her hand and wiped her brow through several more contractions, murmuring, “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay....” And then she snapped, “I know it’s okay! Stop saying that!” Oh, he had heard about this—when you’re doing whatever you can, but she hates you, anyway. “Sorry,” she said. “That’s transition talking.” “Transition?” he repeated. “It’s getting closer. "
― Robyn Carr , Shelter Mountain (Virgin River, #2)