I laugh, voice wrecked. “Never again. Unless you want to, in which case—absolutely. Butneveragain.”
“Shut up,” she growls.
Another contraction.
She screams.
My heart breaks.
But I don’t let go.
She clings to me like I’m the only thing tethering her to Earth.
The nurse counts us through it, voice low and firm. “Good. Good. Almost there.”
I whisper in her ear, over and over again. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
The doctor leans in, nodding. “Okay, Nora. Next one, we’re pushing.”
Her head drops back. “Oh my god.”
“You’ve got this,” I say. “One more mountain, and we’re there.”
She nods, jaw clenched, eyes blazing.
I kiss her temple.
I don’t say it out loud, but I think it with every beat of my pulse:
This is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
Nora lets out a sound that belongs in a war movie. Or a rock ballad.
She pushes. I count. I forget how to breathe.
And then—
There’s a cry.
High, sharp, beautiful.
A baby’s cry.
Our baby’s cry.
And just like that, the silence is gone.
The room explodes into movement—nurses, beeping monitors, warm towels, gentle chaos. But all I can see isher.
The doctor lifts her into the air like she’s presenting a miracle. “It’s a girl.”
I stare. My heart trips over itself. Agirl.
I look at Nora, who’s already crying. Laughing. Glowing with something more than sweat or adrenaline.
“She’s okay?” Nora whispers, panic and hope still coiled in her chest.
“She’s perfect,” I manage, my throat tight.
