She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I know,mija, but you deserve it.”
Mom and Davidarrive Saturday afternoon with homemade arroz con pollo and a bag of baby clothes from a consignment shop Denise discovered in Coral Gables. She unpacks the clothes on the living room floor and holds up each piece for inspection while David sits quietly on the couch, comfortable with silence that doesn’t feel disengaged.
“This one has ducks.” She holds up a onesie. “Babies love ducks.”
“Do they? Or do adults love putting ducks on babies?” I tease.
“Same thing.” She folds the onesie and adds it to the stack. “How’s school prep going?”
“Adrian sent the check last week, and I finalized my course load. I’ll take four classes the first semester, and three have online options.”
Mom doesn’t look happy about me going to school so quickly after the birth, but she keeps any criticism to herself, besides tiptoeing around the subject. “Is Adrian supportive of you going back to school so soon?”
“He built me an office in the house with a desk, bookshelves, and a whiteboard. Then he asked if I needed anything else, and when I said no, he went and added a mini-fridge because he decided I might get hungry while studying, or I might need somewhere to store pumped breastmilk.”
Mom frowns for a second, clearly having hoped Adrian would side with her so she could press the issue to convince me to wait longer. After a moment, she just gives me a bland smiles andnods. We still have some work to do, but we’re both avoiding topics that lead to disagreements until we reach a point where we can handle them without damaging our relationship again. It’s not ideal, but we’re closer than we’ve been in years, and we’ll get there eventually.
David laughs from the couch, and she smiles at him. This is a real smile that carries an ease I haven’t seen from her with any man in my memory. She reaches over and squeezes my arm above where Eric’s bruise faded months ago. “I’m proud of you, baby.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
“I’m also terrified for you, because twins are going to destroy your sleep schedule, and you were always cranky without sleep.”
I laugh. “I’m aware.”
Labor startsat two in the morning, because my children have already inherited their father’s preference for operating under cover of darkness. The first contraction wakes me from a dead sleep, and I lie still for thirty seconds to confirm it’s real before I reach for Adrian. He’s already awake, watching the ceiling, which means he either never fell asleep or he woke up when I shifted.
“It started.” I say it calmly because panic serves no one, and his version of panic involves mobilizing an entire security apparatus, which I don’t need right now. We probably don’t need any guards, but we maintain a few to prepare for every precaution, and because Arseny and Fedor have become family.
He’s dressed and calling Dr. Miller’s emergency line within ninety seconds. I time him because it’s funnier than counting contractions. Miller answers on the third ring and tells us to head to the hospital when contractions are five minutes apart or if my water breaks, whichever comes first.
My water breaks forty minutes later in the bathroom, and Adrian has me in the car before I finish drying my hands. Fedor drives, and Viktor rides shotgun because apparently the birth of our children requires Adrian’s righthand man, and I get it. I’ve already texted Marisol to prepare to come in when she gets clearance.
At the hospital, Dr. Miller meets us in the labor suite. “Thirty-seven weeks is full term for twins,” he says while reviewing the monitors. “Baby A is head down and in position. Baby B is transverse, which means we’ll monitor closely during delivery. If B doesn’t turn after A is born, we may need to pivot to a C-section for the second baby. I want you prepared for that possibility.”
“Prepared.” I grip the bed rail as another contraction hits. “I’m prepared for anything that ends with both babies breathing…and out of me sooner rather than later.”
“Do you want to rethink natural birth?” asks Dr. Miller in a neutral tone.
Contractions are much worse than I had expected, but I shake my head. “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”
Adrian stands beside me. He hasn’t sat down since we arrived, and he holds my hand through each contraction with a grip that matches mine in intensity. Between contractions, he asks Miller precise questions about fetal heart rates, dilation progress, andintervention thresholds, and Miller answers each one without irritation because Adrian is asking the questions I would ask if I weren’t focused on breathing through the pain.
The labor progresses fast. Dr. Miller checks me at four centimeters, then six, offering paid meds again with the gentle reminder it’s my last chance. I decline, and we’re soon at eight as the gaps between contractions shrink until I’m gripping Adrian’s hand continuously. The pain is immense but productive. I breathe through it because the alternative is screaming, and I don’t have the focus to scream right now.
“You’re doing this,” Adrian says. He’s close to my ear, and his voice is low; only I can hear him. “You’re doing this, and I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’d better not.” I squeeze his hand hard enough that he winces. “You did this to me.”
He laughs softly. “Technically, we did this to each other.”
Less amused, I glare at him. “We’ll discuss attribution after I push two humans out of my body. I think I get final say.”
He squeezes my hand. “You’ve earned that.”
At ten centimeters, Dr. Miller positions himself and tells me to push with the next contraction. I push, push, push, and push again over the next few minutes. The pain becomes a singular, consuming force. I hold Adrian’s hand and bear down with everything I have.
Braden arrives at 5:47 a.m. with a cry that fills the room and a head of dark hair like his father’s. Dr. Miller places him on my chest, and I hold my son and forget every other experience I’ve ever had because none of them prepared me for this.
