Epilogue
Geoff
Iam wildly underqualifiedfor this situation.
Christa is on a hospital bed. There are machines doing machine noises. A midwife who looks alarmingly calm keeps telling her to breathe, like this is a yoga class and not a medical event that will haunt me forever.
Christa is breathing like a dragon.
I am holding her hand and trying not to pass out.
“You’re doing amazing,” I tell her, because somehow that’s my job now.
“I will kill you,” she replies, perfectly lucid.
“That’s fair,” I say. “I accept this outcome.”
Another contraction hits and she grips my hand like she’s trying to crush bone into dust. I consider warning her that I need that hand for future parenting tasks but decide now is not the time.
The midwife smiles at me. Sympathetic. Knowing. Like she’s already noticed that I am seconds away from tears or vomiting or both.
“You can talk to her,” she says kindly.
I nod like I know what that means.
“Christa,” I say, leaning closer. “Love. You’re incredible. You’re terrifying, but incredible.”
She snorts mid-pain. “Shut up.”
Progress.
Time stops existing. Everything narrows to her breathing, the pressure of her hand in mine, the absolute certainty that I would now fight all the gods if asked.
“Okay,” the midwife says brightly. “One more big push.”
Christa looks at me, eyes blazing.
“If I die,” she says, “tell everyone I was right about everything.”
“I already do,” I say immediately.
She laughs. Loud. Then pushes.
There is chaos. Swearing. Encouragement. A noise I will never forget and will absolutely not describe to anyone.
And then.
A cry.
High. Furious. Alive.
“Oh,” I whisper.
They lift her up, small and slippery and astonishing, and place her on Christa’s chest like this is the most normal thing in the world and not a miracle I am wildly unprepared to witness.
She has dark hair. Tiny clenched fists. Lungs that clearly have opinions.
I laugh.
