We manage to get out of the nursery, down the hall, but barely. I cling to the walls between contractions, hissing curses under my breath.
By the time we reach the car, I’m drenched in sweat, fighting for air. The contractions are coming hard and fast. My nails dig into Matteo’s arm as another one rips through me.
“Pull over,” I gasp. “I think?—”
“No.” His tone is pure command. “You are not giving birth in this car.” One hand tightens on the wheel, the other finds mine and holds. “You wait for me. You wait until we’re somewhere safe. Somewhere I can make sure you’re taken care of.”
I let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “That’s… not how this works!”
He mutters something in Italian—dark, sharp, probably a threat to the universe itself—but he never releases my hand.
The drive to the clinic blurs—sirens of my own breathing, the thud of my pulse, Matteo’s voice grounding me through every contraction. Then hands are on me, machines, monitors. The steady rapid beat of our baby’s heart fills the room.
Matteo never leaves my side. Not for a second.
Not while they check me.Not while they prep the room. Not while the contractions claw their way through me.
He stands there—steady, immovable, a wall I can lean on—every breath, every moment, every wave of pain anchored by his presence alone.
Matteo’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his hair a wreck from running his hands through it. He looks on edge—wired tight—but he holds it together, calm in a way I’m absolutely not.
“Oh my God, get out!” I scream, voice cracking. “Get this baby out of me!”
Sweat burns down my face. Hair clings to my forehead. Every breath feels useless. None of those stupid breathing exercises are doing shit.
“You’re doing great, baby,” Matteo murmurs, kissing my temple. “Breathe through it. Just breathe?—”
“If you say breathe through it one more time, I’m going to whack you,” I snap?—
right before another scream tears out of me. The contraction hits like a freight train, ripping me apart from the inside.
When it passes, I collapse back onto the pillow, shaking.
“Where is Dr. Brown?” I whimper, staring at Matteo like he can conjure her out of thin air.
Right on cue, the door opens. Dr. Brown strides in, masked, gloved, ready like she’s entering a battlefield.
“Are we ready to meet our little bundle of joy?” she asks, settling onto the stool at the end of the bed.
“GET THIS BUNDLE OF JOY OUT OF ME NOW!”
I want to pretend childbirth is empowering or spiritual or whatever people on the internet say.
It’s not.It’s torture. It’s my body splitting in half while a whole human bulldozes their way into the world.
But then—I hear it.
That cry.
That sharp, furious little cry slices through the room, and suddenly everything stops hurting.
Or maybe it still hurts and I don’t care anymore.
The baby is placed on my chest and I suck in a shaking breath.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, smiling through tears. “You’re here. Hi, little one… hi, love bug.”
Nurses crowd around us, wiping him down. Matteo is at my side, kissing my temple again, but this time his voice breaks. His eyes shine and the look on his face mends something in me I didn’t even know was fractured.
