30. Epilogue Cala
EPILOGUE.
“Oli!” I shout from the shower.
Hot water crashes against my back, steam filling every inch of the bathroom.
When Oliver bursts through the door, his eyes already know what’s happening—mostly because my hand is clutching my stomach and my breathing is completely out of control.
He wraps a big towel around me, drying me off with quick, focused movements.
“The bag’s already in the Rover. I just need to get you dressed and we’re out the door,” he says, his voice calm and steady.
My mind is racing a thousand miles a minute—anxiety, fear, joy—all tangled together in my chest.
I can’t bend down, so Oliver slips on a pair of sneakers, no socks, then scoops me up effortlessly from the bed.
Downstairs, Eliza is waiting, following Oliver’s orders as he carries me through the hall. I don’t really hear what they’re saying—I just follow his lead. Well, technically, my body follows his; my brain can barely keep up.
He gets me settled in the passenger seat, buckles my seatbelt, and jumps into the driver’s side.
As we pull out of the garage, he switches the music and puts on my favorite song— “The River” by AURORA—playing low.
His hand finds my thigh, warm and grounding, and he gives me a small, confident smile.
“Everything’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” he says.
“I know…” My voice is tight, but I still manage to smile back.
Then a contraction hits—sharp and deep—and I grip the door handle with all my strength.
“Ahhh!”
“Breathe with me, Cala. In for four, out for six. Come on.” His focus is split between the road and me, perfectly balanced, like he’s done this his whole life.
I follow his lead.
Inhale. Exhale.
And slowly, the pain eases.
When we reach the hospital, the world blurs into lights, voices, movement. A gurney waits for me at the entrance. Oliver’s hand never leaves mine—it’s my anchor, the only thing keeping me steady.
“All right, Cala,” says the doctor from behind his mask. “It’s time to meet your baby.”
Time. That word echoes.
Time to meet him, time to let go of fear, time to become something new.
Oliver leans closer, his eyes bright with that calm he always keeps just for me.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs. “You’re not alone.”
And I believe him.
“Push, Cala, now!”
Everything narrows—the lights, the sounds, the pain—until the world is only breath and heartbeat. His, mine, and the tiny one fighting to join us.
Then—A cry.
Sharp. Fierce. Alive.
Astor bursts into the world, and it feels like the universe exhales with him.
They place him in my arms, wrapped in warmth and silence. My body trembles, but my soul stills. His skin is soft and new, smelling like rain and hope.
“Hi, Astor,” I whisper, brushing my finger along his miniature hand. My fingertip dwarfs his, and yet he grips it with a strength that undoes me completely.
Oliver’s tears fall before he can hide them.
“He’s perfect,” he breathes, voice cracking. “So perfect.”
I reach up, trace the corner of his jaw, and kiss the salt on his skin.
“We made him,” I whisper. “We made this life.”
The nurse smiles gently. “Congratulations, Mom and Dad. Let me just take him for a moment”
Reluctantly, Oliver releases him first. The nurse walks a few steps away, and we both follow with our eyes, breath held, hearts tethered to that tiny cry that sounds like ours.
When the nurse turns back with a grin — “Healthy and strong” — I finally let out a sob I didn’t know I was holding.
Oliver pulls me against his chest, his voice rough and reverent.
“You did it.”
“No,” I whisper against his skin. “We did it. Together. Always.”