A LOVE FORGOTTEN

My water broke.

If there's one thing I've learned from working with pregnant women, it's that panic is a serious no-no. That mantra plays on repeat in my mind as I waddle my huge self to my sister's room, trying to keep my breathing steady. When I knock and tell Sarah, "The baby's coming," she bolts upright like a spring-loaded toy.

True to her style, she rushes out of her room with my hospital bag slung haphazardly over her shoulder, wearing mismatched flip-flops—one pink, one blue. Despite the sharp contraction cutting through me like a jagged blade, I manage a breathless chuckle at the sight. But the humor fades quickly as another wave of pain grips my abdomen. I stop, bracing myself against the wall, focusing on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. My eyes begin to water, and for a brief moment, the reality of what's happening washes over me like a tide.

Birthing isn't a joke. The universe seems to mock me as I travail alone, with one name echoing through my mind. Where's Ethan?

The drive to the hospital is a blur. Sarah's knuckles are white on the steering wheel, her nervous glances in my direction making me laugh between contractions—though my laughter quickly turns into gritted-teeth groans. The minute we pull up to the hospital where I work, Dr. Torres herself greets us at the entrance. She wastes no time, grabbing a wheelchair and wheeling me into the delivery ward with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times before.

"Emily, you're in good hands," she says, her voice steady and reassuring.

By the time I'm settled on the bed, my contractions are coming faster, harder, and with unrelenting ferocity. Sweat beads on my forehead, tears streak my cheeks, and my mind feels split between the crushing pain and the overwhelming sorrow that Ethan isn't here.

Dr. Torres examines me quickly, nodding as she pulls off her gloves. "You're already at ten centimeters. We're ready to go. Emily, listen carefully—when I tell you to push, give it everything you've got. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth in between. You can do this."

I nod faintly, too overwhelmed to respond. Every muscle in my body is screaming, and I'm not sure I have anything left to give. But the look on Dr. Torres' face—and the firm grip of my sister's hand—grounds me.

"Push!" Dr. Torres commands, and I bear down with every ounce of strength I can summon. My body shakes, my vision blurs, and for a moment, it feels like nothing is happening.

"Good, Emily!" my sister encourages, her voice steady but tearful. "You're doing so good! Just a little more!"

Dr. Torres glances at the nurses. "We've got crowning. Emily, one more big push. You're the strongest woman I know. You've got this!"

The pain crescendos, white-hot and all-consuming, and I scream, "Ethan!" as if calling his name will summon some part of his strength to me.

And then it happens.

A sensation of release, of something powerful and primal leaving my body, followed by the sound I've been waiting for—a baby's first cry.

"It's a boy," Dr. Torres announces, her voice brimming with warmth. She places the tiny, squirming bundle on my chest, and for a moment, the world stops.

Tears stream down my face as I look at my son. He's perfect. His tiny fists flail, his cheeks are flushed, and his cries are strong and steady. I press him close, overwhelmed by a tidal wave of emotions—relief, exhaustion, love, and grief all at once.

"You did it," Sarah whispers, brushing hair from my damp forehead. Her own eyes are glistening with tears.

As I cradle my baby boy, the weight of everything I've lost presses against my chest. But I also feel the promise of everything I've gained. I weep not just for the love I'll give him, but for the love Ethan would have given him too.

"Hi, baby," I whisper, my voice cracking. "It's you and me now. We're going to be okay."

And for the first time, as I hold my son against my heart, I believe it.