"You're doing great," I tell her.
"Stop saying that."
"You are though."
"I'm dying."
"You're not dying."
"I feel like I'm dying."
"That's different."
She squeezes my hand through another contraction—they're coming faster now, harder. I coach her through breathing, watching the monitors, trying to stay calm while my wife is clearly in agony.
"Almost there," I tell her. "Almost time to meet them."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
Dr. Martinez returns, checks Emma's progress. "You're at ten centimeters. It's time."
Emma's eyes go wide. "Time?"
"Time to push."
“Nope. I’ve changed my mind.” Emma cries out through another contraction.
“I’m afraid that’s not a choice.” Dr. Martinez laughs as she slips on the bright green gloves that match her scrubs.
"I can't do this." Emma's voice breaks, exhausted and terrified. "I can't. It's too much. I'm not ready."
I lean close, forcing her to look at me. "Yes you can. You're Emma Dawson. You can do anything."
"Don't leave me."
"Never. I'm right here." I take her hand. "Let's meet our babies."
Baby A arrives first.
"It's a boy!" Dr. Martinez announces.
Our son comes out crying—loud, angry, absolutely beautiful. The nurse cleans him quickly and places him on Emma's chest.
Emma's crying and laughing at the same time, looking down at this tiny human we made.
"Hi," Emma whispers. "Hi sweetheart."
Our son has dark hair and Emma's nose and he's the most incredible thing I've ever seen.
"He's beautiful," I manage, voice rough.
The nurse takes him for measurements after a moment. "We need to get your daughter here," Dr. Martinez says.
Ten minutes later—the longest ten minutes of my life—Baby B arrives.
"And here's your girl!"
