39.
OLíVIA SAMPAIO
Pregnancy brings old fears back.
At twenty-eight weeks, I wake with pain.
Not severe.
My body remembers anyway.
Manuela’s pregnancy.
The ultrasound.
The hospital.
The loneliness.
Leonardo is asleep beside me.
I touch his arm.
He wakes instantly.
“What happened?”
“I’m having pain.”
Within a minute, he is dressed.
“We’re going to the hospital.”
“It might be normal.”
“We’re going.”
“You don’t need to panic.”
“I’m not.”
He is.
In the car, he holds my hand.
Doesn’t call anyone without asking first.
“Can I tell Artur?”
“He’s a pediatric cardiologist.”
“He knows obstetricians.”
“My doctor is already waiting.”
“Right.”
The exam shows mild contractions with no cervical change.
I need to reduce activity.
Nothing serious.
Leonardo listens to every recommendation.
At home, he tries to ban stairs.
“The doctor did not say that.”
“She said relative rest.”
“Relative.”
“Stairs are exertion.”
“Our house has two floors.”
“We can move the bedroom.”
“No.”
“I could install an elevator.”
“Leonardo.”
“It was an idea.”
“A three-million-real idea.”
“It would not cost that.”
“I do not want to know.”
Manuela watches.
“Count to ten, Dad.”
He does.
The following day, he has an armchair installed downstairs.
I accept.
Compromise.
Over the next few weeks, I have to work less.
I hate it.
The clinic runs without me, which should make me proud.
Instead, I feel useless.
Leonardo notices.
“Do not tell me I need to rest.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking you miss feeling necessary.”
I stare at him.
“Therapy has made you dangerous.”
“I can bring some work home.”
“I don’t want patient charts here.”
“You can take meetings.”
“I already do.”
“Then what do you need?”
“To complain.”
“Right.”
“Without fixing anything.”
“That is difficult.”
“Learn.”
He sits.
“Complain.”
“I’m bored.”
“I understand.”
“I feel like everyone else is still living and I’m standing still.”
“I understand.”
“My body doesn’t feel like mine.”
“I understand.”
“I’m afraid Laura will come early.”
“So am I.”
“This wasn’t about you.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Can I hug you?”
“Yes.”
He does.
It solves nothing.
It helps.
Laura stays until thirty-nine weeks.
Labor starts in the middle of the night.
This time, there is no abandonment.
Leonardo is beside me.
Manuela is asleep at Marta’s house.
At the hospital, he holds my hand through every contraction.
“Do not tell me to breathe,” I warn.
“I won’t.”
“I need to breathe.”
“Breathe.”
“Don’t order me.”
“Olívia.”
“I’m in pain.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
“True.”
When the pain gets worse, I squeeze his hand hard.
“You’re going to break it,” he says.
“You can take it.”
Manuela’s line.
Even in labor, I laugh.
Hours later, Laura is born.
Her cry fills the room.
Leonardo falls apart.
The doctor places our daughter on my chest.
Small.
Warm.
Perfect.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s doing beautifully.”
Leonardo touches her hair.
“Hi.”
His voice breaks.
“I’m your dad.”
He missed no word.
No first second.
When Laura opens her eyes, he cries even harder.
“She looks like Manuela.”
“All newborns look squashed.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“That too.”
They examine her heart.
Normal.
I breathe properly for the first time in months.
That afternoon, Manuela arrives.
She walks slowly toward the bed.
“Is that her?”
“That’s her.”
With help, Leonardo places Laura in her arms.
Manuela looks at her sister.
“Tiny.”
“You were too.”
“Does she know who I am?”
“She will.”
“Hi, Laura. I’m Manuela. Dad reads stories wrong, Mom checks your heart all the time, and Grandma is going to sneak you food.”
Marta protests from behind us.
Everyone laughs.
“But we stay,” Manuela finishes.
I look at Leonardo.
He takes my hand.
Laura sleeps in her sister’s arms.
The family that stays.