My husband’s funeral wasn’t even over, and now I’m expected to find the strength to bring his legacy screaming into the world. The weight of it crushes me, threatens to drown me, until I remember who I am doing this for.
Him.
Them.
Us.
The contraction crests, and I gasp. “I need to—”
“Go ahead, Kaia,” Dr. Adams urges. “Listen to your body. Push when you need to.”
What follows is a war inside me. Pain consumes me, like my body is being torn in two. Every muscle strains, sweat soaks my skin, and my breath comes in ragged pants. Yet through the agony, there’s beauty, each push dragging Hurricane’s children closer to life.
“Come on, darling,” Ingrid coaches, her grip strong, her voice fierce. “You’re doing amazing. Hurricane would be so damn proud.”
“Hurricane’s here,” Lani chokes, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I swear I can feel him here with us.”
And maybe it’s exhaustion.
Maybe it’s grief and adrenaline mixing in my veins.
But I feel him too.
A warmth wrapping around me, a presence at my back, urging me to keep going.
My Hurricane.
My anchor.
My storm.
“I can see the head,” Dr. Adams shouts, excitement cutting through the haze. “Keep going, Kaia. One more big push.”
I bear down, pouring every ounce of myself into it. Every moment of love, every fight, every kiss, every laugh I shared withhim, I channel it all. A scream rips from my chest, raw and intense, and then suddenly, release.
A piercing wail fills the room, slicing through the grief as if sunlight has broken through storm clouds.
“It’s a boy!” Dr. Adams announces triumphantly, holding up a tiny, perfect, screaming infant. “And he’s got a good set of lungs on him.”
For a heartbeat, the world freezes while I glimpse him, red, wriggling, fierce, as the nurses step in.
“We’ll run the checks,” one says quickly, already lifting him from Dr. Adams’ hands.
My arms ache, a hollow, desperate ache. I want to hold him. To press him to my chest. To claim him. But all I can do is watch as they carry him across the room. His cries echo, sharp and alive, cutting through me like both salvation and torment.
“Lynx,” I whisper, choking on the word. “His name is Lynx.”
Lynx Ladet.
Hurricane’s son.
His heir.
His legacy.
He’s barely minutes old and already I see Hurricane in him, in the stubborn strength of his cry, in the fierce way he announces himself to the world.
But before I can even breathe him in, another contraction seizes me, violent and merciless.
