I returned to Isabel’s room, holding her hand through contractions that came harder and faster as the hours passed. Every few minutes, a different woman would come to check on her progress. Finally, Isabel asked Alex if she’d get to Lucia and if they would both mind staying. While most women probably would’ve touched their heart, moved by the request, my sister whooped her way back to the waiting room.
“Your family is insane,” Isabel whispered after she left. The lull was brief, and within seconds, her grip on my fingers was strong enough to leave bruises.
“Our family,” I corrected, stroking her damp hair and feeding her a spoonful of ice chips.
She laughed, then winced as another contraction started to build. “Our family. God help us.”
Alex returned, dragging our mother behind her. And miraculously, their presence seemed to calm Isabel.
The labor stretchedthrough the night and into the morning. I lost track of time, lost track of everything except her and the monitors and the nurses who came and went with calm efficiency. She was exhausted. I was terrified. But every time I looked at her face, I saw the same determination that had carried her through everything else.
And then, finally, the doctor said the words I’d been waiting for.
“One more push.”
Isabel bore down, her hand crushing mine, a sound tearing from her throat that was half scream and half triumph. And then—a cry. Thin and furious and absolutely perfect.
“Welcome, baby girl,” the doctor said, placing her on Isabel’s chest after cutting the umbilical cord. She’d asked me if I wanted to, then reneged when I felt the room start to spin.
The tiny, squalling, red-faced creature who had turned our lives upside down before she’d even taken her first breath rested on her mother’s chest, staring up at her as if to say hello. Isabel’s arms came up to cradle her, instinctive and sure, and her face crumpled.
“She’s perfect,” she whispered. “Rascon, look at her. She’s perfect.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat had closed up, my vision blurred with tears I didn’t bother to hide. I leaned down and pressed my forehead to Isabel’s, one hand cupping the back of our daughter’s impossibly small head.
“Welcome to the world, Anaïs,” I managed.
Isabel nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Anaïs.”
Alex and Ma crowded on Isabel’s other side, gazing down at the newest member of our family. Tears streaked down both their cheeks, which only made mine fall harder.
The nurse took our baby girl briefly to clean her up, check her vitals, and wrap her in a soft pink blanket. When they returned, they placed her in my arms.
I looked down at my daughter’s face. Her eyes were closed, her tiny fists curled against her cheeks. She had a dusting of dark hair and a rosebud mouth that pursed and relaxed as she slept.
“Hey, baby girl.” I said, choking back tears. “I’m your papa. I’ve been talking to you for months. Nice to finally meet you.”
She yawned. The smallest, most devastating yawn I’d ever seen.
I was gone. Completely, utterly gone.
Alex left the room, asking who else she could send in. Isabel answered “everyone” before I could say they could all wait. Ma, though, wouldn’t leave. She took Anaïs from my arms with the practiced ease of a woman who had raised seven children, and held her close.
“She looks like you, Rascon.” A tear ran down her cheek. “When you were born. The same face. Alfonso would have—” She couldn’t finish. Just shook her head and held our daughter like the precious thing she was.
Snapper came next, with Saffron, then brothers and sisters-in-law in a parade of happy tears and whispered congratulations. Anaïs was examined and adored and declared the most beautiful baby any of them had ever seen—other than their own.
I watched Isabel through all of it. Watched her accept the embraces, the kisses, the overwhelming flood of love from people who hadn’t truly known her less than a year ago. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t retreat behind the walls she’d spent so long building.
She let them love her.
When the room finally emptied and the door clicked shut behind my mother, who Alex finally convinced to give us time on our own, the silence felt like a gift. Isabel lay propped against the pillows, with Anaïs asleep in her arms. I sank into the chair by the bed and reached for her hand.
“You did it,” I said.
“We did it.” She turned her head to look at our daughter, and her smile was tired but radiant. “She’s beautiful.”
“And perfect.”
