Page 83 of Letting Go

His face does this thing, somewhere between panic, awe, andoh-my-God-I'm-not-ready, and he blurts, “You’ve been having contractions and you didn’t tell me?!”

I shrug. “Didn’t want you to freak out. No reason for both of us to be sleep-deprived.”

He blinks. “Why would I freak out?!”

This, he says, while trying to put onmymaternity pyjamas.My.Pyjamas. And the worst part? They're loose on him.

“Honey,” I say, gesturing with both hands like Vanna White to his pink cotton clown show.

He looks down, horror dawning. “Oh, hell no-” he rips them off and starts doing frantic laps around the room like a headless chicken. It’s all keys, phone, charger,where’s the bag,did we pack snacks,do you need a sweater,I need a sweater—

Meanwhile, I hop into the shower because I have a feeling it going to be a while. The second the hot water hits my back, I feel it.

Pop.

Oh no.

Yep.Theregoes the water. Maybe I was wrong.

“Babe!” I yell, sticking my head out of the steam. “Update: we’ve got a waterfall!”

He crashes into the bathroom door. “WATER BROKE?! I THOUGHT WE HAD TIME.”

I rinse off in record speed, grateful to every higher power that I shaved yesterday, because listen, I don’t care how “natural” labour is, I amnothaving a team of medical professionals staring down there if it looks like I’ve been raised by wolves.

By the time I step out, towel-wrapped and ready-ish, Caden’s finally found his pants, remembered thehospital bag, and looks like he aged ten years in five minutes.

I smirk. “Told you, you’d freak out.”

He glares at me. “Get in the car.”

Five hours.

Five. Agonizing. Hours.

No one warned me about the ribs. Seriously,why does no one talk about the ribs?I was prepared for contractions, for screaming, for possibly shitting on the table, but no one told me it would feel like my ribcage was being pried apart with crowbars by a vengeful goddess.

But it’s over now.

And somehow, I’m still not surehow, we’re holding him. Our son. A little wrinkled, a little sticky, a lot perfect. We wanted this to be just us, just for a moment.

We didn’t tell anyone. Not Lorna. Not Keira. Not Hannah. Not even Eli, who would’ve shown up in a nurse outfit and tried to talk his way into the OR. Though, I’m pretty sure I saw one Caden’s brothers flirting with a nurse outside my room.

Caden’s parents are somewhere in Italy or Greece or possibly on a yacht off the Amalfi coast. We told them we’d call once the baby was out and the gunk was off. Priorities.

Caden might be their youngest, but this kid, our kid, is thefirstgrandchild.

Caden’s staring at him like he can’t quite believe he exists, like his heart is expanding just looking at him. He brushes a thumb down our son’s soft cheek and says, “So… what about Charles?”

I side-eye him, head too heavy to lift, boobs way too sore to feel polite.

“Absolutely not,” I croak.

He laughs quietly, then kisses my temple, taking a seat by my side.

I shift a little, wincing as I do. “The names we picked,” I say, eyes drifting to our son’s face. “None of them feel likehim.”

“James?” Caden offers gently.

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