Ethan looked toward the monitor and something dark crossed his face.
Decision.
“We may need an emergency C-section.”
Terror hit me harder than labor itself.
“No,” I whispered. “Please… please let her be okay.”
Her.
The word landed visibly on him.
His daughter.
A daughter he had never known existed until less than an hour ago.
For one brief second, all the walls between us cracked open completely.
And I saw it.
The grief.
The shock.
The devastation of realizing he had missed everything.
Every kick.
Every ultrasound.
Every lonely night I sat assembling a crib alone because I refused to call him.
Or maybe because I was too proud.
Too hurt.
Too broken.
Ethan squeezed my hand tighter.
“She’s going to be okay,” he said firmly. “I promise you.”
Another contraction slammed through me before I could answer.
The monitor shrieked again.
Linda swore under her breath.
Then Ethan’s face changed completely.
Pure instinct.
“Prep OR two now,” he ordered sharply. “We’re out of time.”
The room erupted into motion.
Nurses rushed around us.
Machines rolled beside the bed.
Someone shoved paperwork into my shaking hands.
