26. Shanay
Twenty Six
Shanay
I know it the moment I wake up.
Not in a dramatic way—there’s no movie-style gasp or splash of water. Just a deep, low ache in my back, a pressure I can’t quite ignore.
I shift in bed, wincing.
“Mike,” I whisper.
His arm’s already around me, hand splayed over my belly. Protective, even in his sleep.
“Hmm?” His voice is rough, half-asleep.
“I think it’s happening.”
He shoots up like I screamed.
—-
“Breathe,” I tell him, even though I’m the one having the contraction.
He’s already on his feet, grabbing the bag he packed six weeks ago like we were going to war. Tossing on clothes. Talking to himself.
“You need water? Pillows? Your charger—where’s your charger?”
“Mike.”
He stops. Looks at me like I’ve just told him I’m dying.
“I’m okay,” I say, soft. “But I think my water’s about to—”
And that’s when it happens.
Warm. Sudden. I blink down at the sheets. “Okay, now I’m sure.”
—-
He carries me to the truck.
Doesn’t even argue when I say I can walk. Just picks me up like it’s instinct, muttering, “No way in hell you’re walking through a snow-covered driveway with my baby about to come out of you.”
It should be ridiculous.
It should be over-the-top.
But I’ve never felt safer in my life.
—-
The drive is short, but intense. Every time I groan, his grip on the wheel tightens.
“You okay?” he asks for the fifth time.
“Still okay.”
“You sure?”
“I’m pretty sure the baby’s still in there, Mike. So… yeah.”
He makes a sound like he’s trying not to smile—and failing.
—-
The hospital lights are too bright, the beeping too much.
But Mike’s right there.
Every second.
His hand doesn’t leave mine. His voice is in my ear every time the contractions hit.
“You’ve got this, baby. You’re doing so good.”
“You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”
“You’re mine, and you’re not doing this alone.”
—-
When it’s time to push, I cry.
Not from pain. From emotion.
Because the look on his face wrecks me.
He’s pale. Jaw locked. Eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing keeping him standing.
“You ready?” the nurse says.
He squeezes my hand. “We’ve got this.”
I nod. “Let’s meet our baby.”
—-
It’s fast.
Too fast.
Everything blurs into shouting and pushing and pain and heat and—
Then I hear it.
A cry.
High. Sharp. New.
And Mike breaks.
He drops to his knees, his forehead against my side, hand still wrapped in mine.
Then I see them lift our baby up.
And everything stops.
—-
Mike cuts the cord with shaking hands. Cradles the tiny bundle against his chest like he’s made of glass.
He walks over, kisses my forehead.
“You did it,” he whispers.
“No,” I say, tears spilling. “We did.”
—-
Later, when it’s quiet, I hold our baby to my chest.
Mike is sitting at the foot of the bed, one hand on my ankle, one arm stretched over the side of the bassinet.
He looks like a storm that’s finally calmed.
“I didn’t think I could love you more,” he says, voice hoarse.
“And now?”
He looks up. Eyes wet.
“Now I’m gone.”