It hadn’t been passionate. No furniture was harmed. No neighbours scandalised. It was stealthy. Tactical. Conducted under the duvet like a hostage negotiation, both of us listening for footsteps, one ear on the baby monitor, ready to abort mission at the first sign of a child demanding water or an urgent, non-negotiable dinosaur conversation.
Somehow, no one interrupted.
And somehow, once was enough.
A few weeks later I stared at a positive pregnancy test while Dan blinked at it, then at me, and muttered, “Whoops.”
Now here we were.
“Nearly there, Emma,” the midwife said brightly, far too cheerful for someone who had just seen everything I had to offer. “One more big push.”
Dan squeezed my hand. “You’ve got this.”
I squeezed back. Hard.
I don’t understand how people do this more than once on purpose. Labour feels like summoning a demon while being hit by a truck, and then, just when you think it’s over, they hand you a screaming potato and send you home with a smile and no instructions.
And some people enjoy pregnancy? I sneezed once at six months and peed myself. My feet never forgave me. I went in a size five and came out a size six like it was some kind of cruel souvenir.
Then, after what can only be described as a full-body exorcism, there was a cry.
Ruby.
The midwife placed her on my chest, warm and slippery and furious about the whole thing. Eight pounds, six ounces. A full two pounds heavier than her siblings, already announcing herself with authority. Strawberry-blonde tufts. Rolls upon rolls. Perfect.
Dan let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years.
“Holy shit.”
“Language,” I muttered.
He laughed, half hysterical, half in awe, and wiped at his eyes. “She’s perfect.”
I looked at him properly then. His hair was a mess. His T-shirt damp where I’d gripped him during the final push. His face wrecked with emotion.
And for a tiny, dangerous moment, I remembered us.
Not the exhausted housemates version. The real one. The couple who stayed up too late drinking wine and laughing at terrible TV. Who sent inappropriate texts during work meetings. Who used to sneak off at family gatherings just because we could.
Dan kissed my forehead. Soft. Careful. Like he was reminding himself how.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “We did it.”
I nodded, throat tight.
We hadn’t been fighting much by then. Just passing each other in the kitchen, trading logistics instead of feelings.Did you pay the gas bill? Don’t forget milk.Somewhere between careers and children, we’d started to lose ourselves.
Maybe that’s why the pregnancy felt like a snow globe being shaken. Chaos, terror, hope all at once. Maybe this, impossibly, was a reset.
The room settled into that strange post-birth stillness. Ruby snuffled against my chest. Dan’s hand rested on my arm like he was afraid I might disappear.
“Okay,” a midwife chirped. “Just a little repair work now.”
Ah yes. The stitching.
“Do I want to know how bad it is?” I asked.
Dan shook his head immediately. “Nope. And I love you too much to ever find out.”
