Bonus Chapter #2
Even though I’m terrified, even though I wish he were here, even though everything hurts and nothing is how I pictured it, I reach down and rest both hands on my stomach. My son kicks gently in response.
“I’m here,” I whisper through clenched teeth and fear. “I’ve got you.”
And I do. No matter what comes next.
I don’t know it can hurt like this. I don’t even mean the contractions, though they’re worse than anything I imagine. They tear through me every three minutes with no mercy, no break. Just pain and breath and sweat and shaking.
But the real pain, the sharp hollow kind, comes from knowing I’m alone in this. I’m seventeen. I’m about to push a human out of my body. And the boy who helped create him? He’s behind bars and ignoring me. Most likely both.
He doesn’t know. I stopped trying to tell him months ago. Because if you have to beg someone to care about their own child, they don’t deserve to.
So now it’s just me. Me and my mom, who hasn’t left my side since we got here. She holds my hand through another contraction right now, whispering things like “You’re doing so good” and “Just breathe, baby” while I cry into the scratchy pillow and tell her I can’t do this.
But I know I will. I have to. There’s no backing out now.
“Okay, Kenna,” the nurse says, her voice calm but firm, “you’re at ten centimeters. It’s time to push.”
Time slows. The room blurs. I blink at her like I don’t hear right.
“Now?” My voice comes out hoarse. I’m drenched in sweat. My body trembles. It feels like my ribs are cracking open, like I’m being split in two.
“Now,” she confirms with a gentle smile. “It’s time to meet your baby.”
My baby.
Those two words hit me like lightning.
I grip the rails of the bed like they’re lifelines, and my mom’s hand tightens in mine.
“You’ve got this, Kenna,” she says. Her voice is full of emotion she tries to hide. “You’re strong. You’re made for this.”
I don’t feel strong. I feel terrified and broken and like a little girl playing dress-up in a grown-up hospital gown.
But I nod anyway.
I need to meet him. More than anything, this needs to be over.
Seeing his face feels like the only way forward.
Maybe then I’ll know if he has my eyes. If he’ll cry when he sees the world for the first time.
If he’ll recognize my voice, the one that’s been whispering I love you through the swell of my belly for months.
“Okay, Kenna. With the next contraction, I want you to push.”
It hits fast and hard, and I do what they say.
I push.
And I scream.
I’ve never made a sound like that. It rips out of me like something primal and ancient. My body isn’t mine anymore. It’s all instinct now.
The pressure. The burning. The stretching.
Everything at once.
And it hurts.
God, it hurts.
I cry and scream and push and cry more. I tell my mom I can’t do it again, that I want to give up, that I’m not strong enough.
She brushes the hair off my forehead. “Yes, you are. One more. He’s almost here.”
Somehow, I believe her.
I dig into a place inside me I don’t know exists.
The place where mothers are born.
And I push.
And then—
A cry.
High-pitched and wild. Perfect.
And then I hear them say it, the words that split my entire world open.
“It’s a boy.”
In a blur, they place him on my chest.
My baby.
My son.
He’s slippery and red and crying and real. So real. His tiny fists flail like he’s saying I’m here, I’m here, and I sob like I never have before.
I wrap my arms around him like I’ve been waiting years to do it.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, my chest heaving. “Hi. Hi, baby.”
He quiets a little when he hears my voice.
And I lose it.
He knows me.
Through all the fear and noise and pain, he knows me. My son. My beautiful, perfect son.
My mom cries too. I feel her kiss the top of my head and whisper, “You did it. He’s here. He’s perfect.”
I nod through tears and clutch him to my chest like I’ll never let go.
I don’t think I ever will.
All the months of aching and doubt and loneliness don’t matter now.
This moment is everything.
I look down at him, at his scrunched face and tiny mouth and impossibly soft skin. With a trembling finger, I touch his cheek and say quietly, “You’re mine. I’ve got you, baby.”
He opens one eye, just barely, and something in me cracks open for good.
This is what love is. Not the teenage kind. Not the kind that disappears when things get hard.
This is the kind that rewrites you.
Forever.
I don’t know how we’re going to do this.
I don’t know how I’m going to be a mom at seventeen.
But I know I will.
Because I am now.
And he’s worth everything.
The world outside this tiny hospital room feels like a distant hum. Nothing matters except the small bundle in my arms, my perfect, fragile, crying miracle.
He’s so small. So warm. His skin smells like something I never knew could exist, like fresh hope and soft beginnings wrapped up in one.
I cradle him close and feel every breath he takes press against my chest. It’s like he’s trying to memorize me while I memorize every inch of him.
His tiny fingers curl around mine, and my heart shatters and rebuilds at the same time.
But his name. I haven’t said it out loud yet.
For weeks, I think about it. I hold names like precious stones, weighing each one for meaning and strength and something that will carry him through life.
My eyes fall on his face again, his soft lips and button nose and lashes so fine they almost disappear.
And then I know.
“Cohen,” I whisper, my voice trembling like it’s the first prayer I’ve ever spoken.
His tiny body twitches as if he’s been waiting to hear it.
It feels right. It feels like him.
I say it again, louder and more sure. “Cohen.”
He blinks with his dark, curious eyes, and I swear he smiles. Just a little.
I brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead and breathe him in. “You’re my Cohen. My brave, beautiful boy.”
The nurse comes in quietly and smiles at us. “He’s perfect, Kenna.”
I nod, unable to find words big enough, and hold him tighter.
Time slows.
The pain and fear from before feel far away.
Now there’s only this moment.
Me.
And Cohen.
Together.
I rock him gently and hum the only song I remember from childhood.
He nestles closer, and I feel it. The fierce, unbreakable love that will carry us both through everything.
In his perfect little face, I see my entire future.
And I know I’ll never stop holding him.