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Peter tugged on his t-shirt and left the bedroom. Nausea hit Ronja. Bridget’s voice rose to a false happiness. “Is Ronnie okay?”

“She’s taking a nap,” said Peter.

Ronja worked her underwear and dress on. Her movements were as coordinated as a beached whale.

The “Ohhh,” from Bridget said she wasn’t convinced. “Were . . . you checking on her?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Ronja’s belly contracted again, and this time it hijacked her breath. Her mouth watered with acid and her gut rose. She gritted her teeth, waddled to the bathroom sink, and vomited.

Bridget and Peter appeared, alarmed, and asking questions. He held her loose hair and whispered tender endearments in Swedish.

“Are you in labor?” Bridget asked.

“I don’t know,” cried Ronja, running the tap. She skirted her gaze between Peter and Bridget.

“Let’s go to the hospital,” said Peter. He returned to the bedroom briefly and emerged fully dressed with his coat.

“I guess my news can wait,” Bridget murmured, and the three of them left.

Ronja sat in the waiting area of the County Medical Center, a converging planet of races and cultures, but she observed this as if underwater, looking up. Her back muscles became increasing sources of torture. She threw up three more times, and in between each episode of vomiting, Peter yelled at the triage receptionist. Bridget held Ronja’s hair back, comforting her. Her mind grew shrouded by ever-intensifying waves of what felt to be an invisible vise, crushing her body.

During a contraction, hospital staff appeared with a wheelchair. They expected her to move?

Sweating and crying, Ronja was transferred to a brightly lit room that reminded her of the emergency room in Stockholm. She was alone with strangers. Peter and Bridget were gone. They tried to gas her for the pain, but she chucked the mask onto the floor, determined that pain was the sole vehicle through which she would finally be reunited with her heart’s joy.

At last, a writhing, squalling human, sticky with blood and vernix was placed on her chest. Fascination overtook her relief from the cessation of pain. This new human sharply divided the past from the future. Ronja’s mistakes, her indiscretions—before. And now? The searching, curious eyes of her baby tucked Ronja’s world inside them. With a cry, she greeted her daughter, “Hej, hej, Ulla,” and kissed her forehead.

When Peter and Bridget joined Ronja and Ulla, Bridget squealed, “We can bring Ulla home to the new apartment I found. That was my good news!” Bridget kissed Ronja’s cheek, and Ronja connected eyes with Peter. He cleared his throat. “Ronja is moving in with me. I bought a house in Kenwood.”

Bridget slowly straightened, and her gaze darted between Peter and Ronja. Her voice was tight. “That’s it?”

“I don’t know why you’re upset,” Peter said. Ulla began to whimper.

“You two had a thing going,” Bridget snapped, “even before. Didn’t you? I bet you are Ulla’s dad. It’s why you don’t want me.”

“Bridget—” said Peter.

Her eyes shot to Ronja. “He kissed me. Said he’d always be there for me.”

Ronja’s heart stalled.

Peter didn’t flinch. Rather, he looked annoyed. “The kiss was on the cheek. And I was being kind, offering to help you with finances. We both know you’re not the best with money.”

Ulla’s cries grew to an inconsolable pitch. Ronja began to cry as well. She didn’t know how to comfort Ulla.

“You didn’t think to tell me this?” she asked Ronja. But Ronja, too consumed with Ulla, didn’t answer.

“Enjoy your life together,” Bridget said and whisked herself out, past a nurse entering.

The nurse extended her arms as if to take Ulla. Ronja cried harder and shook her head.

“No, no, dear, she’s hungry. Give me your boob.”

Ronja allowed the nurse to fondle her nipple and shove it into Ulla’s mouth. “There. How does that feel?”

With her daughter satisfied, Ronja’s heart settled, and she closed her eyes.