Almost.
Mum did call Tim’s folks after that. Too late, but I suppose better late than never. She even asked to speak to Tim directly, so he’d know first. I appreciated that.
To hear Mum tell it, he couldn’t get off the phone to leave for the hospital fast enough. The moment she got the words, “Natalie had a baby girl,” out of her mouth, he didn’t even let a second pass by before telling her he was on his way.
It’s been around two hours since our daughter was born. Two months since Tim and I saw each other. Sixty notes left under the stone lion, retrieved by me when Mum was at work or in the shower or not looking. Every single one of them ended with the Walt Whitman quote:Loved you then, love you still, always have, always will. Every single one swore that he’s waiting forme, that we will get through this, that everything’s going to be OK.
And it is.
But not in the way he thinks.
Giving birth did something in my brain that being pregnant did not. Looking at her, being able to hold her in the flesh, sealed the deal.
My life is not my own anymore. I don’t belong to me. I belong to her. She needs me, needsus, more than Tim and I need each other.
This little girl has been born to parents who are too young and not ready. She deserves better than that. And I love her. Just like that, whether it’s a hormonal response or something deeper, I do. Enough to make sure she has everything she needs, as best as I can give it.
And I know Tim will feel the same.
When he arrives, he ignores my mother by my bed and focuses solely on me, grabbing my hand and linking our fingers together. I’m sure I still look awful, exhausted and grey, nothing like how I wanted to look the next time he saw me. But he stares at me like I’m infinitely adorable, and it puts me at ease in a way I haven’t been since the last time he touched me. His mop of thick brown hair is a total mess, the shadows under his eyes purple as bruises, and his skin pale like it gets when he hasn’t slept well.
“Are you OK?” he asks, kissing my fingers, “Are you OK?” I think he’s clinging onto my hand to ground himself, because his grip is tight and almost shivering. He’s giving me such immovabledirect eye contact, as though no-one else exists or matters to him…as though I’m all that’s keeping him upright.
I don’t think enough people have considered the impact this whole situation has had onTim. Sure, I’m the one who needed the scans and the endless blood tests and the classes and the dietary needs and all the rest of it, but he’s suffered, too. And, while I’ve felt swamped and overloaded by people checking on me…none of these people were checking on him. They either called him a stud or treated him like a screw-up.
“I’m OK,” I reassure him.
“Tim,” my mother says quietly. He turns his jaw ever so slightly in her direction, still keeping his eyes on me. “I’m sorry.” Mum’s hugging herself, a clear tell that she’s feeling bad. She did that when she told me Dad was dead, and when she lost her last but one job due to budget cuts. “I should have called you so you could be here. That was wrong of me. I apologise.”
His jaw tenses, and I see him turning her words over in his mind. It’s not something she can ever make right or take back. He missed the birth of his daughter because she thought she knew better. But apologising to him and admitting it was a mistake is at least a start. His silent nod of acknowledgement is something I expected he’d do; he wouldn’t waste time shouting at her for something that can never be changed, and which she already sincerely regrets anyway.
Mrs Stewart walks in then, having finally caught up with her son. “Oh, I… Oh.” She offers me and my mother a timid smile. “How are you, sweetheart?” she asks me. She’s much easier to be around when her husband isn’t there.
“Er…not too bad,” I reply. I mean, I did just force an entire human out of me, and everything hurts like the fires of hell, and I’ve never been so utterly wiped both physically and emotionally in all my life, but for all that, I’m managing well, now that the nasty birth part is over.
It’s almost a relief when a nurse wheels in the glass cot thing with our baby inside. If nothing else, my little one is a subject change and attention thief. Mrs Stewart’s sharp intake of breath is audible, and, just like my mother, she melts when she looks inside. Our girl is sleeping peacefully, and I know I’m her mother - holy shit, I’m hermother- but she’s objectively adorable. She has the tiniest fingernails and petal soft skin, and is irresistibly sweet when she’s fast asleep.
“Could I have a few moments with just Tim?” I ask, trying to convey with the look I give everyone that I will be very upset if they say no, while keeping my voice weak, trying to retain my one big playing card ofpoor me, I just had a baby, be nice.
I’m touched when my mother links arms with Mrs Stewart without a word and leads her out. I think they might end up being friends. Maybe. Sort of.
And then, for the first time in months, I’m alone with Tim. It gives me a complete understanding of the word ‘bittersweet’. I want to hold him so tightly to me that the entire security team in this hospital couldn’t pull us apart. But something else - someoneelse - has to come first.
The baby makes a small noise. Tim closes his eyes, leaning his forehead on our still-clasped hands. “Hold her,” I say softly.
He takes a deep breath before he opens his eyes, like he’s bracing himself, or making the most of the last few moments before thisall becomes real for him. She makes another little creaky noise, and he turns his head to finally look at her.
I’ll remember this moment for the rest of my life.
He stands, transfixed, and just watches her for what feels like an hour but in reality is probably only a minute. Then, he reaches out his forefinger and runs his fingertip over her cheek. “What if I hurt her?” he mumbles, his voice fractured.
“You won’t.”
Taking me at my word, he gently reaches in, and slowly, slowly lifts her out of the glass cot and stares at her. My heart fills to overflowing as a slow, achingly happy smile spreads across his face, a single tear escaping his eye.
I bask in the moment for just a little while, trying not to let it weaken my resolve. The decision I’ve come to is what’s right forher, and that’s the only thing that matters. Not what my own heart is screaming and begging for.
“Tim,” I say softly, and he glances at me before returning his eyes to his daughter. The bed dips slowly as he carefully sits close to me.
