Another contraction. Stronger. I breathe through it, counting like Dr. Kuzmin taught me, focusing on the exhale.
When it passes, I’m shaking. “This is really happening.”
“Yes.” He presses his forehead to mine. “You’re going to be incredible. You’re the strongest person I know.”
“I’m terrified.”
“Me too.”
The admission helps more than confidence would. We’re both scared. Both facing something we can’t control with force or strategy.
We’ll just have to survive it together.
By the time Dr. Kuzmin arrives forty minutes later, contractions are five minutes apart.
The medical team converts one of the guest suites into a delivery room. Equipment I don’t understand, monitors that beep steadily, the controlled efficiency of professionals who do this regularly.
I’m terrified anyway.
Dr. Kuzmin examines me with practiced calm. “Four centimeters dilated. This will take time. Try to rest between contractions.”
“How long?”
“First babies are unpredictable. Could be hours. Could be all day.”
All day. Hours of this pain that’s already making me want to scream.
Aleksandr hasn’t left my side. He’s changed into surgical scrubs someone provided, seated beside the bed, hand gripping mine.
“I’m not leaving,” he says when Dr. Kuzmin suggests he might want to wait elsewhere. “I stay with her.”
“Mr. Sharov, labor can be lengthy, you’ll be waiting a while.”
“I. Stay.”
Dr. Kuzmin doesn’t argue.
The hours blur together. Pain and pressure and desperate attempts to breathe through contractions that feel like my body is tearing apart from the inside.
Aleksandr is everywhere. Holding my hand during contractions, wiping sweat from my face, murmuring in Russian—words I don’t fully understand, but the tone is soothing. Between contractions, he gives terse orders on his phone, managing the organization with one arm while never releasing me with the other.
“You don’t have to—” I gasp between contractions. “—don’t have to work right now.”
“I’m not working. I’m making sure everything runs smoothly so I can focus on you.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s different.” He brings my hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to my knuckles. “Trust me. Everything outside this room is handled. You’re my only priority.”
Around hour six, something shifts. The pain intensifies to a level that makes me scream despite my attempts to stay controlled.
Dr. Kuzmin examines me again. Her expression tightens. “The baby’s heart rate is dropping. We need to move faster.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, panic rising.
“It means we might need to intervene. C-section if labor doesn’t progress soon.”
“No!” The word tears out. “No, I want to do this the old-fashioned way.”
