58. Sophie
58
SOPHIE
T he hospital room is a blur of white walls, beeping monitors, and bustling nurses.
The contractions come faster now, each one stronger than the last, pulling a guttural groan from my throat.
Maxim is by my side, his hand gripping mine, solid and unyielding, like an anchor in the storm.
“Breathe, Sophie,” he says for the hundredth time, his voice steady despite the chaos. “You’ve got this.”
“Easy for you to say!” I snap, glaring at him through the haze of pain. “You’re not the one doing—oh God!”
Another contraction cuts off my rant, and I squeeze his hand so hard I’m surprised his fingers don’t break.
The doctor glances up from his position at the foot of the bed, his expression calm but focused. “Almost there, Sophie. One more big push.”
I let out a shaky breath, blinking back tears. My body feels like it’s being torn in two, but there’s a flicker of hope, a promise that the end is near. Maxim leans closer, his forehead nearly brushing mine. “I can’t do this,” I mutter, tears pouring down my cheeks.
“You’re strong enough for this, malyshka,” he whispers, his voice low and intimate. “You’ve always been strong enough.”
His words hit somewhere deep, past the pain and fear, straight to my heart. I nod, gathering every ounce of strength I have left.
“Okay,” I say through gritted teeth. “Let’s do this.”
The next moments are a blur of motion and sound—shouts of encouragement, the steady rhythm of Maxim’s voice, the unbearable pressure reaching its peak. And then, suddenly, a new sound fills the room.
A cry. A gorgeous little cry.
My entire body goes still as the doctor lifts a wriggling, squalling baby into the air. “Congratulations,” he says with a broad smile. “You have a beautiful baby girl.”
The nurse places her in my arms, and I stare down at her, my breath catching in my throat. She’s perfect—rosy cheeks, a shock of dark hair, and eyes scrunched tight as she wails her displeasure at being dragged into the world.
“She’s…” I trail off, tears streaming down my face. “She’s incredible.”
Maxim leans over me, his hand brushing my shoulder as he looks down at our daughter. For a moment, his icy exterior melts away, replaced by something totally unguarded. Awe. Love.
“She’s ours,” he says softly.
I glance up at him, and in his eyes, I see everything I’ve been afraid to hope for—devotion, pride, and a tenderness I didn’t think he was capable of. “You did this,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You gave me a family.”
I smile through my tears, cradling our daughter closer. “She still needs a name. Could do with a little help here.”
He’s silent for a moment, his gaze never leaving her tiny face. “Mila,” he says finally. “It means ‘gracious.’”
“Mila,” I repeat, the name rolling off my tongue like a promise. “I had my first contraction when I saw that in the book. She obviously knew we were calling for her to come home.”