Page 94 of If the Ring Fits

“Of course I did,” I reply, stumbling over the words, the air in my lungs thicker than normal.

I move swiftly to her side and reach for her hand. She grasps it like a lifeline, her grip startlingly strong for someone who’s been through the wringer.

I press a kiss to her damp forehead, breathing her in. Until her face contracts in a painful wince and in a panic, I ask the midwife how I can help.

“Rub her shoulders; human touch is healing.”

I do everything I’m told as hours blur together in a haze of contractions and medical jargon. The steady beep of the monitors and the reassuring chatter of the nurses create a strange symphony that fills the room. Through it all, I stay glued to Rowena’s side, my hands on her, rubbing, kneading, soothing.

I stroke her hair, whispering words of love and encouragement, my heart feeling like it might burst with a heady cocktail of anticipation and apprehension. “You’re doing amazing, Sunshine. Just a little longer.”

She nods, her breath coming in short, focused puffs. The determination in her eyes holds me spellbound.

Finally, the moment arrives. The midwife looks up with a smile. “Alright, Rowena, it’s time to push. On the next contraction, give it everything you’ve got.”

Rowena bears down, a warrior goddess in a hospital gown, showing a strength I never knew a human could possess.

“Push, two… three… four… five…”

She collapses back against the pillows, breath heaving, only to gather herself and go again. And again. Each time, I’m in awe of her, of the raw power of her body, of her indomitable spirit.

After what feels like a lifetime compressed into mere minutes, a high, thin cry pierces the air. “It’s a girl!” the midwife announces, her voice bright with joy.

Tears blur my vision. I blink them away, desperate not to miss a single second. The nurse places a tiny, writhing bundle on Rowena’s chest, a shock of dark hair stark against the reddened skin.

Rowena cradles her daughter, wonder and love transforming her exhausted face into something ethereal, something divine. Tears trace silvery paths down her cheeks, but her smile… Fuck, her smile could light the world.

I lean down, pressing my lips to her sweaty forehead. “She’s perfect.” My voice comes out raw. “You’re perfect.”

Rowena nods, words beyond her, gaze locked on the little miracle in her arms.

We sit like that, suspended in a bubble of pure happiness for the longest time.

Eventually, Rowena looks up at me, her eyes shining with exhaustion and bliss. “I haven’t chosen a name,” she murmurs, her voice soft, almost reverent.

I smile, awed by the miracle her daughter is—those impossibly tiny fingers, that button nose, those rosebud lips. “How about Soleil?” I suggest, the name coming to me in a flash of inspiration. “It means sun in French. She’s a little sunshine, just like her mom.”

Rowena’s face lights up, her smile brighter than any star. “Soleil.” She repeats the name as if trying it on for size. “It’s perfect.”

42

ROWENA

Three months later

I wake to the soft whimpers of Soleil from her bassinet beside the bed. My eyelids feel like lead weights as I pry them open, the room still shrouded in darkness. The glowing numbers on the bedside clock read 4.37p.m. Has it really been only an hour since I fed her last? I thought it was night already. But time has lost all meaning in this endless loop of diaper changes, feedings, and stolen winks of sleep.

Carefully, I scoop Soleil into my arms, her tiny body molding against my chest as I settle into the rocking chair. As she nurses, I find my mind drifting, wondering how something so natural can feel so foreign and overwhelming.

The past three months, since Soleil has been born, have been an endless blur of hours bleeding together, day and night swirling into an indistinguishable haze as I tend to Soleil’s constant needs. Sleep, when it comes, arrives in fleeting wisps—one hour here, two hours there—before her plaintive cries pierce through my exhaustion, summoning me back to thepresent. I feel like a ghost inhabiting the shell of my former self, my body heavy with a deep-set fatigue.

Every night, when Adrian returns home from work, he tenderly takes Soleil from my weary arms, urging me to rest. I stumble to the bedroom in a daze, collapsing onto the rumpled sheets still warm from my last interrupted attempt at slumber. The mattress embraces me as I drift off, only to awaken what seems like moments later, for a night feeding and then again after a few hours. Did I even eat dinner? My eyes squint against the early morning sun slanting through the window. Adrian’s side of the bed lies cold—I vaguely recall hearing him getting up at dawn, Soleil nestled against his chest as he gave her a bottle of my milk that I pump whenever I have extra and hummed a lullaby I didn’t recognize.

Afterward, he dropped her in her crib and crossed the room to press a light peck on the top of my head. “You can rest; she’s burped and will be out for a few more hours.”

I nodded gratefully, but a part of me ached for more than this brief interaction, more than the chaste kisses that are all he gives me these days. I know it’s too soon for intimacy—I’m still healing from the birth—but I long for the passion, the deep connection we once shared. Does he not desire me anymore now that my body has changed? The thought gnaws at me.

Adrian is being an amazing father, even if Soleil isn’t really his daughter. He’s present, helps me in any way he can, but I notice a distance expanding between us. There’s a shift in Adrian’s touch, his kisses growing lighter, briefer. I yearn for the heat of his skin against mine no matter if it’s too soon for sex. Even without going all the way, there are a million other things we could do, ways we could be intimate, but he doesn’t seem interested. It’s like the fire in his eyes for me is gone. Andeven the smaller intimacies, the long embraces and playful caresses, have faded, leaving an aching void in their wake.

---