Page 137 of Love You Madly

Owen held my hand through the entire drive, rubbing slow circles on my hand before squeezing it three times. I realize then that he’s done this a few times before. Always three squeezes. Which is so strange because everything else he does is in even numbers, never odd.

When I ask him why always three, his answer makes me smile. He explains to me that it’s the silent communication Barrett uses when he’s nervous and needs some reassurance. Three squeezes for three words. “I love you,” and two squeezes back means “I love you, too.” Barrett didn’t realize the difference between to, too, and two so it just stuck that way.

Moments like this make me realize how much I lean on him and how much I need him. When I look at him, there’s a steadiness in his eyes that I latch onto. Once Taylor got home, Mom planned to meet me at the hospital, and the promise of her presence brought a faint comfort. Thankfully, Owen was already off work, and we had my hospital bag packed and ready—he had thought of everything. My contractions were about ten minutes apart by then, but a nervous flutter remained in my stomach, fueled by all those stories of second children arriving more quickly with no brakes, no warning.

When we finally arrived at the hospital, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the sterile white tiles felt harsh against my tired eyes. With her calm demeanor and warm smile, Dr. Everett informed me that I was about four centimeters dilated. Relief washed over me momentarily, but it was short-lived. My body, stubborn as ever, wasn’t dilating on its own, and soon the pitocin was hooked up, dripping steadily into my veins. I opted for the epidural—God, I hoped it would be smooth, like it had been with Sara. But this anesthesiologist seemed hesitant, fumbling with the needle, and each attempt sent a jolt of frustration and pain through me. By the third try, I was ready to scream at her to stop, to just let me go through the rest without it, consequences be damned.

But I managed to breathe through it, somehow, gripping Owen’s hand like it was my lifeline. I squeezed my eyes shut as I willed myself to stay calm. Owen’s soft and reassuring voice was the anchor I clung to. “You’re doing sogood, Callie,” he murmured. Even though I didn’t feel like I was doing that well, it helped to hear it. The minutes stretched into hours. The ticking clock on the wall seemed to mock me as what I hoped would be a quick labor dragged on.

Owen has been a saint through all of this. We've been here since last night, and he hasn’t left my side. He kept me distracted with stories of Barrett’s latest antics and little reassurances that I was doing great, even when I felt far from it. There’s a tension that thickens the air when Adam walks into the waiting room, a silent, heavy cloud that makes it hard to breathe. It’s awkward having him here when all I want is Owen, the one who has been here with me through every ache, every sleepless night, every tear. Adam keeps his distance, and I’m grateful for that. His presence lingering in the periphery still feels so wrong.

The contractions are a crushing force, each one stealing the breath from my lungs, and I can only imagine what he must be feeling, standing there watching me endure this. Owen stays beside me until the nurse says it’s almost time to push. I wonder if he’s afraid that Adam will swoop in, play the role of the hero at the last moment, and overshadow everything Owen has been for me. Considering everything we’ve been through together, the thought makes my heart ache.

Before he exits the room, Owen places a sweet, soft kiss on my forehead. “I love you,” he whispers, his breath warm against my skin, his lips lingering like he doesn’t want to pull away. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, no matter what.”

“I love you too,” I manage to say, my voice trembling as I watch him walk out, just as Adam enters. The shift feels jarring, like a sudden, unwanted change in the soundtrack of my life. Adam’s eyes are red-rimmed, and he looks like he’s been crying. For a brief moment, I feel bad for him, imagining the turmoil he must be going through. But then reality crashesback in—I didn’t ask for this. He’s the one who made his choices. Now, he’s reaping the consequences, waiting in the wings for a moment I no longer feel should belong to him.

The doctor steps into the room, her expression a blend of determination and gentle encouragement, and I know it’s time. This is it. The culmination of all the sleepless nights, the anxiety, the anticipation. I remind myself that I am strong. I have made it this far. I hear Owen’s voice in my head, reminding me that I can do this. The pain is a blinding, searing force, but I push through it, focusing on Dr. Everett’s calm instructions to bear down, breathe, and bear down again. Each second feels like an eternity, my body screaming, my heart racing, until finally, with one last push, she’s here.

Except something is wrong. The air is thick with a tense silence that sends a bolt of panic through me. Dr. Everett confirms it’s a girl, but I can’t hear her cry. The quiet is deafening, an eerie, hollow void that fills my chest with dread. As the doctor cuts the cord, the baby is handed off to a nurse, and hushed whispers fill the room. My heart is in my throat, my feet are still in the stirrups, and tears are pouring down my face as I beg someone, anyone, to tell me why my baby isn’t crying. Desperation claws at my insides, a primal scream building in my chest as I plead through sobs to any Gods who will listen for my baby girl to be okay.

After seconds that feel like a lifetime, I finally hear it—a small, weak cry that breaks the tension in the room and lets me breathe again. Relief and fear clash violently inside me as they whisk her away before I can even hold her—before I can even see her. The nurses quickly explain that she swallowed fluid on the way out and needs to be monitored in the nursery for a little while. I nod numbly, barely registering their words as I lie there, tears still streaming down my cheeks.

Everything blurs together in a haze of exhaustion andemotion. Adam unexpectedly kisses the top of my head before rushing out behind the medical staff with the baby. The affectionate gesture feels so foreign. It’s so out of place that I don’t know how to react. A wave of nausea hits me as I’m left alone for a heartbeat before Owen comes running back in. The switch happens so quickly it’s as if they’ve just tagged each other in during a relay race. Owen is breathless, his eyes wide with worry as he reaches my side, taking my hand in his and squeezing it tight.

In this moment, I feel completely broken. My chest aches. My body is spent. And my heart feels like it weighs a million pounds.

I don’t even know what my daughter looks like.

I know she is alive, and that’s what matters, but I haven’t even seen her face. The weight of it all bears down on me. I cling to Owen, hoping his presence will somehow be enough to hold me together when I feel like I’m falling apart.

Owen leans in close, his hand brushing my hair back from my forehead, his eyes searching mine. “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” he whispers, his voice steady even as I can see the concern etched into his features. “She’s going to be fine. I promise. We’re going to get through this together.”

“You don’t know that!” The sob escapes me, and my voice sounds angrier than I intended. “You don’t know that for sure.” He pulls me into his arms, wrapping me in the warmth of his embrace, and I feel the tension in my body start to ease, just a little.

“You’re so strong, Callie,” he murmurs against my hair. “You’ve done everything you could, and she’s here. That’s all that matters. We’ll see her soon, and she’ll be perfect.”

Owen’s words seem to rescue me from the darkness that threatens to overtake me. I clutch onto him, letting the steady beat of his heart against my ear calm the frantic pace of myown. “I’m right here,” he continues softly, holding my face in his hands. “And I’m not going anywhere. I love you, and I’m so proud of you.”

“I love you too,” I whisper, my voice cracking but full of gratitude. His unwavering support and quiet strength anchor me, and I take a deep, shuddering breath, letting myself lean into his presence. It’s at this moment I realize he is the calm to my chaos, my beacon of hope in a sea of uncertainty. He is my heart, my grounding, my center. And with so much still unknown, Owen’s words give me a flicker of hope, and for now, that’s enough to hold onto.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when Mom quietly slips into the room, her face lighting up with a relieved smile. She looks between Owen and me, her eyes soft with maternal understanding. “Adam’s been down with the baby,” she says, giving us a reassuring nod. “She’s doing well, and the nurses said they’ll be bringing her in soon.”

There’s a collective sigh of relief in the room as we wait, the minutes stretching like rubber bands pulled too tight. Wayne, who had arrived shortly before the baby was born, sits quietly beside my mom, his expression a mix of joy and concern.

Brooke is here too, standing near the foot of my bed. She softly rubs my leg through the hospital blanket, trying to keep me calm. We have been through so much together over the years, and I’m grateful to have her here with me now.

As soon as I see the door to my room open again, a wave of relief washes over me. A nurse enters, pushing a small bassinet, and my heart leaps as I catch sight of my daughter. She’s tiny, wrapped snugly in a soft pink blanket, her little face scrunchedup as if she’s not quite sure about this whole being-out-in-the-world thing. The nurse picks her up gently, cradling her in her arms as she walks over to me, a sweet smile on her face.

“Here she is,” the nurse says softly, carefully helping me get situated with my daughter in my arms. The moment the baby is nestled against me, a rush of love so fierce it almost hurts floods through me. Her skin is warm, her tiny fingers curling around the edge of the blanket, and I’m overwhelmed by the miracle of her.

Owen sits beside me, his eyes fixed on her with a mixture of awe and tenderness as he rubs circles on my back. Adam stands a few feet away, visibly moved but keeping a respectful distance. I take a deep breath, glancing around the room at the faces of those who have been my rock, my family, through it all.

“I’ve been thinking about her name,” I begin, my voice soft but clear. I meet Owen’s gaze, then Adam’s, wanting them both to understand how important this is to me. “We agreed that I’d get to choose this time, since Adam picked Sara’s name.”

Adam nods, his expression a mix of acceptance and understanding. “I’m okay with that, Callie,” he says gently. “As long as she still has my last name—Graham. We agreed on that, right?”

I nod. “Yes, we did. She’ll have your last name.”Although I wish she wouldn’t.

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