Page 115 of By the Letter

“You think?” I shoved my fingers through my hair. “I’m not equipped to deliver a baby.”

Reaching for me, she snagged my hand and brought it to her lips. “We’re here, honey. Beanie looks great, I feel fine in between contractions, and Dr. Sharma is just down the hall. Don’t be mad at me.”

“No.” I dropped into the chair next to her bed and gathered her hands in mine. “No, baby, I’m not mad. I’m freaking the hell out,which I did not expect, but I’m not mad at you. You’re incredible, going through labor without saying a single word. I wish I could have been rubbing your back to ease your pain all night, but that doesn’t matter now.”

Dr. Sharma hadn’t sent us home. By the time we’d gotten checked in, Shira’s contractions had been coming every few minutes. She hadn’t admitted it was real labor until the doctor checked and found she was already seven centimeters dilated, though.

“Oh.” Her fingers tightened around mine. “Oh, it’s coming.”

She sat upright, a gust of breath exploding from her. Her head fell forward, and I stood, but there was nothing I could do other than breathe with her and let her hold my hand. It didn’t sit well with me, being so helpless when she was suffering, but I had to set my feelings aside. Thinking about myself right now was useless. Shira needed my focus.

After an eternity, her body relaxed, and her hold on my hand loosened. “That was intense. Wow.”

I brushed her hair out of her face. “You did so well, baby. So,sowell.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if she wanted me to fetch the anesthesiologist, but I bit that down. Shira wanted to try this med-free, and I’d promised to support that. Offering her pain meds wasn’t part of our plan, but the second she asked for them, I’d be hitting the call button.

“Can you pull my hair back?” she asked.

“Back? Me?”

Her chin wobbled, and her eyes shimmered. “I don’t feel like I can do it. My arms…I just—I can’t.”

“I know, I know.” I kissed the top of her head and scanned the room for her bag. “I’ll do it. I have to let go of you for a minute to grab a hair tie. Is that okay?”

“Please. I’m going to rip it out if it touches my shoulders for another second.”

Luckily, she’d packed plenty of hair ties. The downside, I wasn’t well versed in styling women’s hair, and Shira had a lot of it. I sensed I didn’t have much time to mess around, though, so I did my best to gently gather it high on her head and wrap a soft scrunchie around it. Once it was up, Shira released a long breath and rubbed her legs over the sheet covering them.

I touched my lips to her forehead. “Better?”

“Yes.” Her legs shifted restlessly. “I think—no, I need to stand. Can you help me stand up?”

I hesitated, my gut churning. But Shira knew her body, and I wasn’t about to argue. Together, we eased her to her feet, her hands clinging to the bed rail. She swayed, and I swayed with her, holding her hips until another contraction struck. I did as she asked, putting pressure on her hips and keeping quiet through it. We went on like that for a while, the breaks between her contractions becoming shorter and shorter.

There was a rhythm to it. Breathing, swaying, pressure, the steady beep indicating our son’s heart was beating as it should. Time stretched and snapped around us, but we were in this bubble together, moving to the song we’d composed ourselves. My panic abated, giving way to a certainty Shira could handle this, which meant I would have to as well. For her. For our son.

We rocked, swayed, breathed, and in between, Shira asked me to kiss her neck or cheek or tell her something about rugby or a funny brother story. Impossibly, I was able to make her laugh.

“I think…I think maybe Dr. Sharma should come check me,” she said after a contraction nearly knocked her over. “That felt different.”

Minutes after I hit the call button, the doctor bustled in. Gloves on, she checked Shira’s progress. With a warm, reassuring smile, she declared, “All right, Shira. You’re fullydilated. If you’re feeling the urge, I want you to push with the next contraction. Let’s see what happens.”

Just like that, we were here, the final stretch.

With her hands locked in mine, Shira pushed. Silent but fierce, she channeled every ounce of her strength into bringing our son into the world. The doctor’s voice was a hum in the background, but my focus was on Shira—on her flushed, determined face, the sheen of sweat on her brow, the tremor in her arms.

When the doctor urged her to reach down and touch our baby’s head, her lips parted in wonder.

“Oh my god.” Her voice cracked with awe. “I just touched his head, Roman. I touched his hair. He has hair.”

I bent down and rolled my forehead along hers, my own breath hitching. “That’s amazing, baby. Soon, you’re going to be able to touch all of him. He’s going to be in your arms. You just have to push a little longer.”

Her brow furrowed with resolve. “I can do it.”

“I know you can. You’re unstoppable, Goldie.”

Shira pushed and pushed, even more determined now that she’d felt the promise of our boy. He was real, and he was coming.

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