At 8:42 that night, my contractions intensified.
The doctor returned, examined me, and explained that my labor was progressing.
My daughter was coming.
Early.
Without her father.
And without the peaceful beginning Lucas and I had imagined.
The nurses moved around me with calm efficiency.
I clutched the side of the bed through another contraction.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please let her be okay.”
A nurse named Denise stayed beside me.
“Look at me, Victoria. You’re doing well. We’re watching your baby closely.”
Hours passed in fragments.
Pain.
Breathing.
A hand squeezing mine.
The sound of monitors.
Then, shortly after midnight, I heard it.
A cry.
Small.
Furious.
Perfect.
My daughter had arrived.
The doctor smiled.
“She’s here.”
Because she had been born prematurely, the neonatal team examined her immediately.
She needed extra support and monitoring, but she was breathing.
When they briefly brought her close enough for me to see, I noticed her tiny nose.
