Epilogue
Lilly
One year later
“What does it say?” Ian asks, pushing himself off the wall of the bathroom, oozing impatience.
I am speechless right now. We got married at our beach house, surrounded by family and our closest friends, and spent two weeks in Bali for our honeymoon.
We celebrated hard the night of our wedding. Apparently too hard because I am in the bathroom, blinking at the pregnancy test revealing that I’m pregnant. Four weeks.
We didn’t plan for a baby, but it feels like something that would happen to us. All great things have taken us by surprise.
I show him the stick and he carefully holds it, looking at the word “pregnant” written on it.
He gulps, emotion clear in his eyes. The stick trembles in his hand.
I bob my head up and down to confirm the news, so freaking delighted I might burst.
He looks from the stick straight into my eyes with a love so big that it brightens my world.
“You’re going to be a daddy.”
“I am.” He lifts me in his arms, twirling me around. “We’re going to be parents.”
I nod again, so freaking overjoyed.
“Happy about that?” he asks, gauging my reaction.
I lucked out in the husband department.
I palm his face, brushing my nose against his. “Everything with you is perfect. Our baby just rounds that out nicely.”
Out of nowhere, I burst into tears. “I’m thrilled.” I stammer. “I’m just emotional… Overwhelmed in the best way.”
He wipes my teary cheeks with his thumbs. “I love you so very much. Thank you for everything, my flower girl.”
My belly resembles a ripe melon. I am about to give birth to my son any moment now.
Over the last eight months, we have settled into our new home and Kat and I opened another LuKo Juice location. I will take maternity leave for at least six months, but I trust my team.
I fold baby clothes while watching my husband’s interview. Seeing how restless he is to come home ignites my own. He’s warned everyone that he’ll leave in the middle of the game if he needs to because he’s not missing the birth of his child.
“Can we wrap things up? I have a pregnant wife to go home to.”
I shake my head at him, smiling, and caressing the spot where my son kicked me.
“Yes, baby boy. You take after your father. I get it. I’m ready when you are.”
But then something else happens, and a pool of water forms at my feet.
I blink. For a few seconds, the reality of becoming a mother roots me in place. I will soon hold my baby in my arms, and I am both delighted and terrified at the same time.
Think. Don’t panic. You have this.
At the same moment, my husband calls.
I blurt out, “My water broke.”
“Shit. I’m leaving now, but I’m fifteen minutes out. How are you? Breathe.”
The panic I catch in his voice makes me think that he should do the breathing exercises along with me.
I do just that while I stay on the phone with him. Nothing soothes me more than knowing my husband is there for me. His unwavering love and support instill in me the belief that I can achieve anything and do nothing wrong.
I wait for him outside, holding my middle. The tires screech on the pavement, and he jumps out of the car, looking disheveled.
He scoops me up, kissing my sweaty face. He is sweaty too, as he didn’t shower.
Helping me into the passenger seat, he buckles me in before he runs inside the house to grab the maternity bag. I don’t know what I would do without him.
During the ride to the hospital, his hand clutches mine. The pain worsens, ripping my lower body apart. My breathing gets labored, and my husband notices my distress.
Bringing my hand to his mouth, he presses a tender kiss on the top of it. “You’re doing great. Perfect. Thank you.”
“I want to yell at you so bad right now,” I grit out, the pain agonizing.
He casts a sympathetic look my way. “If that helps.”
“But then I was pretty eager too.”
He smirks. “You were, baby. You truly were.”
“No false modesty as ever,” I say as the strongest one hits me, making me nauseous.
“We’re here,” he announces, clearly relieved.
I am wheeled into my private room while the ob-gyn checks how dilated I am.
The contractions occur every ten minutes, so we still have time until delivery. No reason to freak out. My husband never leaves my side, holding my hand and fussing around me.
And then in a blur, everything happens fast.
In the delivery room, my head lolls to the side, sweat gathering on my forehead. I am exhausted, but everyone keeps telling me to push. If I never hear that word again, it will be too soon.
“I want to sleep. I need a break,” I whine.
Ian cups my cheeks, gazing at me with all the love I feel in the deepest corners of my being.
“You can do this, flower girl. Just a few more pushes. You’re amazing, baby. I am in awe of you. Let’s bring our son into our lives.”
It’s beyond me where the rush of energy comes from, but I push so hard, I am pretty sure I burst a vein. But then the sweetest sound rings in my ears—my baby’s cries.
The nurse presses my baby boy to my chest, and overwhelmed by the magnitude of love for him, I cry. Holding him, my chin quivers as I kiss his tiny face, not believing this wonder is mine, the birthing struggle forgotten.
My husband wraps his protective arms around us. Utter rapture and endless love fill my chest.
“He’s perfect, just like his mommy. Thank you,” he says, emotion thick in his voice.
Our eyes lock and his glisten. Chin trembling, he looks overwhelmed with the purest love and sheer awe.
“I love you,” I mouth.
He dips his chin, kissing me softly. “I love you. Forever, my flower girl.”
“Nothing less than that, my reckless boy.”
The End