CHAPTER THREE
EMMA
TWO YEARS EARLIER
I had forgotten how undignified childbirth was.
Not the miracle-of-life part, the actual mechanics. The sweating in places you didn’t know could sweat. The way time collapses. The complete loss of privacy as what feels like the entire hospital staff takes turns inspecting your vagina like it’s a particularly tricky DIY project.
Dan stood beside me gripping my hand, eyes wide with pure terror. The same expression he’d worn during Paranormal Activity, after insisting horror films didn’t scare him.
“You’re doing amazing,” he said, voice wobbling.
I turned my head and glared at him with the full, unfiltered rage of a woman ten centimetres dilated.
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
A contraction tore through me and I made a sound I’m fairly sure only whales and demons could hear.
This was not the birth we’d planned. In fact, it was the birth we’d very deliberately planned not to have.
When I fell pregnant with our third, Oscar was six, Sophie was three, and we were done.
Capital D. The cracks in our marriage had already started to show, though apparently not enough to stop us from having the kind of careful, whispered, post-bedtime sex that landed me back in the stirrups.
It hadn’t been passionate. No furniture was harmed.
No neighbours scandalised. It was stealthy.
Tactical. Conducted under the duvet like a hostage negotiation, both of us listening for footsteps, one ear on the baby monitor, ready to abort mission at the first sign of a child demanding water or an urgent, non-negotiable dinosaur conversation.
Somehow, no one interrupted.
And somehow, once was enough.
A few weeks later I stared at a positive pregnancy test while Dan blinked at it, then at me, and muttered, “Whoops.”
Now here we were.
“Nearly there, Emma,” the midwife said brightly, far too cheerful for someone who had just seen everything I had to offer. “One more big push.”
Dan squeezed my hand. “You’ve got this.”
I squeezed back. Hard.
I don’t understand how people do this more than once on purpose. Labour feels like summoning a demon while being hit by a truck, and then, just when you think it’s over, they hand you a screaming potato and send you home with a smile and no instructions.
And some people enjoy pregnancy? I sneezed once at six months and peed myself. My feet never forgave me. I went in a size five and came out a size six like it was some kind of cruel souvenir.
Then, after what can only be described as a full-body exorcism, there was a cry.
Ruby.
The midwife placed her on my chest, warm and slippery and furious about the whole thing. Eight pounds, six ounces. A full two pounds heavier than her siblings, already announcing herself with authority. Strawberry-blonde tufts. Rolls upon rolls. Perfect.
Dan let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years.
“Holy shit.”
“Language,” I muttered.
He laughed, half hysterical, half in awe, and wiped at his eyes. “She’s perfect.”
I looked at him properly then. His hair was a mess. His T-shirt damp where I’d gripped him during the final push. His face wrecked with emotion.
And for a tiny, dangerous moment, I remembered us.
Not the exhausted housemates version. The real one. The couple who stayed up too late drinking wine and laughing at terrible TV. Who sent inappropriate texts during work meetings. Who used to sneak off at family gatherings just because we could.
Dan kissed my forehead. Soft. Careful. Like he was reminding himself how.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “We did it.”
I nodded, throat tight.
We hadn’t been fighting much by then. Just passing each other in the kitchen, trading logistics instead of feelings. Did you pay the gas bill? Don’t forget milk. Somewhere between careers and children, we’d started to lose ourselves.
Maybe that’s why the pregnancy felt like a snow globe being shaken. Chaos, terror, hope all at once. Maybe this, impossibly, was a reset.
The room settled into that strange post-birth stillness. Ruby snuffled against my chest. Dan’s hand rested on my arm like he was afraid I might disappear.
“Okay,” a midwife chirped. “Just a little repair work now.”
Ah yes. The stitching.
“Do I want to know how bad it is?” I asked.
Dan shook his head immediately. “Nope. And I love you too much to ever find out.”
Fair.
And yet, somehow, even as I lay there being mended like an old sock, everything felt… possible.
I swallowed. “We need to promise something.”
Dan looked at me, suddenly serious. “What?”
“That we don’t let this ruin us.”
He didn’t answer straight away.
“This is our last baby,” I added. “Right?”
“Definitely,” he said quickly.
“We have to remember us,” I said. “Not just Mum and Dad. Emma and Dan.”
He nodded. “You’re right. I don’t want to lose that.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise,” he said. His voice didn’t waver. He meant it.
I believed him.
That’s the part that hurt the most.
It felt cinematic, like one of those moments where the music swells and you’re sure everything will be okay.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
The cracks came back fast. Faster than I expected. Days, maybe hours. The newborn bubble hits differently when you already have two loud, needy children who do not care that you’re healing or emotional or running on fumes.
With Oscar, we’d had bliss. Dan on paternity leave. Walks into town. Coffee dates like we were in a rom-com.
With Sophie, reality arrived.
Two kids was chaos. Sleep vanished. Patience followed. By the time things settled, Dan and I were functional. Polite. Our evenings reclaimed but hollow. Sex returned carefully, quietly, like something scheduled rather than felt.
We told ourselves it was normal. A phase. That we’d find our way back.
And then Ruby happened.
Unplanned. Terrifying. And somehow, against all logic, hopeful.
So when I lay there in that hospital bed, Ruby between us, Dan’s hand in mine, the promise felt real. Necessary. Sacred.
We would do this differently.
We would protect us.
We would not become strangers who only spoke about nappies and bills.
Dan kissed my hair. “We’ve got this.”
I closed my eyes and held onto that moment as tightly as I could.
Because I didn’t know yet how quickly promises crack under sleep deprivation.
How love can survive, but intimacy can starve.
How easy it is to mean everything and still fail.
But right then, with Ruby breathing softly between us, I believed him.
And I believed in us.