I remember the time because I had been awake staring at the clock.
Daniel was asleep in the guest room.
I stood beside my bed waiting to see whether the first pain was real.
Then another came.
Stronger.
“Daniel.”
He appeared almost immediately.
One look at my face and his eyes widened.
“Is it time?”
“I think so.”
His hands started shaking.
Despite everything, I nearly laughed.
At the hospital, labor erased the rest of the world.
There was no affair.
No broken marriage.
No secret wound between my parents.
There was only pain, breathing, fear, exhaustion, nurses, monitors, Daniel’s hand when I allowed myself to take it, and one overwhelming determination:
Get my baby here safely.
Hours later, I heard a cry.
A tiny, furious sound.
Then someone said:
“He’s here.”
My son.
They placed him on my chest.
He was warm.
Red-faced.
Angry.
Perfect.
I looked at him and started sobbing.
