8. Ellie
8
ELLIE
ONE YEAR LATER
“No.” Dove blocks the doorway, his broad shoulders taking up the entire frame. “Absolutely not.”
I clutch the baby mobile to my chest, hurt flashing through me. “You don’t like it? Dove, it took me forever to find one like this.”
His brows furrow. “What? No. The mobile is perfect. I meant you’re not getting on that step ladder. Not when you’re eight months pregnant.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m pregnant, not helpless.”
“I know you’re not. But you’re not going to install that.” He doesn’t budge from the doorway. “I’ll do it.”
I stare him down for a solid ten seconds before giving in with a huff. “Fine.”
Annoyed, I follow him into the nursery, which we’ve spent months transforming with soft green walls, a wooden crib with a safari-print quilt, and animal-themed everything—from the giraffe lamp to the elephant rocker to the octopus-shaped bookshelf.
My eyes land on Dove, who doesn’t even bother with the step ladder. He simply holds the mobile above the crib, his height making the task effortless. He looks at me for approval.
“A little to the left,” I say.
He moves it.
“No, too far. Back a bit.”
He adjusts it again.
“To the left again.”
“Ellie.”
I sigh. “Fine. It’s good there.”
He sets the mobile aside and reaches up to install the hook. I feel a surge of attraction watching the muscles in his back flex as he works, swooning at the sight of my big, burly husband installing a baby mobile. But I quickly push the feeling away. I’m annoyed right now. I’m not supposed to be thinking about how good he looks.
After securing the hook, Dove grabs the mobile and carefully hangs it, the wooden animals swinging gently as he lets go.
“Rotate it so the penguin is at the front,” I tell him.
He adjusts the mobile.
“Now lower it about an inch.”
He lowers it.
“A little more.”
He adjusts it again.
“Actually, raise it back up a half-inch.”
He adjusts it once more, then turns to me with narrowed eyes. “Are you making me do all these adjustments because you’re mad I wouldn’t let you on the ladder?”
I scoff. “No. I just want it to be perfect for our daughter.”
“You’re adorable when you’re grumpy,” he says, coming over and kissing my forehead.
I scowl, still not ready to forgive him, and start to pad out of the room. “I’m not grumpy. I’m pregnant and hungry, which isn’t the same thing.”
“Where are you going?” Dove asks.
“To make myself something to eat.”
Dove reaches the kitchen before I do. “What are you craving? A sandwich with all the usual fixings?”
I try not to look impressed that he’s guessed exactly what I wanted. “I can make my own food.”
“I know you can.” He smiles at me over his shoulder as he pulls ingredients out of the fridge. “You’re completely capable of making your own food, doing your own laundry, and decorating our child’s room. I’m well aware of how competent you are.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he continues before I can get a word in.
“I just like doing things for you,” he says. “Let me spoil my pregnant wife a little.”
It’s ridiculous to be annoyed at my husband for being sweet. Especially when my feet are swollen and aching and my back feels like I’ve been carrying a backpack full of camera gear for weeks on end.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you. But could you add extra avocado and some of that?—”
“Pickled red onion?” he finishes for me, already reaching for the jar.
I sink into a nearby kitchen chair, my body grateful for the rest.
The pregnancy wasn’t planned. When we found out, we both had the same reaction—tears, laughter, and an unwavering certainty that this was exactly what we wanted. Since then, we’ve been preparing—decorating the nursery, debating names (he’s pushing for Aurora, which I find both adorable and ridiculous), and rearranging our professional commitments so we can both be home with the baby for as long as possible.
My gaze drifts to the wall where one of my Antarctica photographs hangs—a closeup of a penguin looking directly into the camera, curious and unafraid. It’s funny how much my perspective of that trip has changed. At the time, I was so disappointed about not getting the aurora shot, feeling like I’d failed. Now, I’m grateful I never captured it. Because that experience taught me something important—that I don’t need external validation to know my work has value. I don’t need to impress editors or land magazine covers to be worthy. All I need is to love what I create. And it’s because of Dove’s endless support and belief in me that I finally realized this truth.
“Here you go, beautiful.” Dove sets a plate in front of me—a perfectly constructed sandwich with layers of avocado, turkey, sprouts, and all my current favorite toppings. “Just how you like it.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a rush of affection. “This looks perfect.”
He settles in the chair next to mine, watching as I take the first bite. I set the sandwich down as I chew, savoring the delicious flavors. Dove reaches over and tears off a piece for himself.
I swat at his arm. “Hey! Make your own!”
“Tastes better when it’s yours.” He pops the stolen morsel into his mouth.
“I’m eating for two, remember?”
“And I’m a six-foot-four man who spends his days hanging baby mobiles. My caloric needs are substantial.”
“Your ability to justify food theft is substantial.”
He laughs, reaching for my sandwich again. I intercept him, grabbing his wrist.
“Touch my food again, Callahan, and you’re sleeping on the couch.”
His eyes darken, and he leans in close. “No, I’m not.”
“No, you’re not,” I agree, meeting him halfway for a kiss.
Heat blooms through my body, familiar and welcome, but it’s quickly interrupted by a tightening sensation that makes me gasp and pull back. My hand goes to my belly, startled by the intensity.
“Are you okay?” Dove’s playfulness vanishes, replaced by immediate concern.
“It’s just Braxton Hicks,” I say, breathing through it. “Perfectly normal at this stage.”
His eyes stay locked on mine, worry etched in the lines of his face. “Are you sure, Ellie?”
I nod as I exhale, then smile at him reassuringly. “I’m sure. It’s nothing to be concerned about.”
Two weeks later, I wake to a sharp pain that radiates from my lower back through my abdomen. My eyes snap open in the darkness of our bedroom. The bedside clock reads 3:17 AM. I breathe through the discomfort, waiting for it to pass. Just another false alarm , I tell myself. My body’s been practicing for weeks now.
Beside me, Dove stirs. “Ellie? You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”
He props himself up on one elbow, suddenly alert despite the hour. “Was that a contraction?”
Before I can answer, another wave hits me, stronger this time. I grip the sheet, my breath catching.
Dove reaches for the lamp. In the sudden flood of light, he studies my face. “That’s it. We’re going to the hospital.”
“It’s too early,” I protest. “I’m not due for another two weeks.”
“Two weeks isn’t that early,” he says, already pulling on a pair of jeans. “And better safe than sorry.”
“It could be hours before anything happens. They’ll just send us home.”
“Then they send us home.” He’s moving with purpose now, grabbing the hospital bag we packed weeks ago. “I’d rather make an unnecessary trip than risk not getting there in time.”
The next contraction hits, and this one steals my breath entirely. Maybe he’s right.
“Fine,” I concede, wincing as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “But if this is a false alarm, you’re doing all the baby laundry for a month.”
“Deal.”
The drive to the hospital passes in a blur of mounting pain and Dove’s steady stream of reassurances. In the maternity ward, a nurse leads us to a small examination room where we wait for what feels like hours. The contractions keep coming, growing more intense each time.
Finally, a doctor enters—a woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense manner. “I’m Dr. Kirby. Let’s see what’s going on.”
After examining me, she sits back and smiles. “You’re in labor, Ellie. Five centimeters dilated already.”
“But it’s too early,” I insist, as if I can argue my way out of this reality.
Dr. Kirby shakes her head. “Babies come when they’re ready. Everything looks good so far.”
As if on cue, a contraction rips through me that’s stronger than anything I’ve felt before. I grab Dove’s hand and squeeze until my knuckles turn white.
“Okay,” I gasp when it finally subsides. “I believe you.”
The next hours cloud together in a haze of pain, sweat, and determination. Time loses all meaning. The contractions build and crest like waves in a storm, each one feeling impossibly more intense than the last. I walk the halls with Dove supporting me, sway on a birthing ball, and try to rest between contractions, but there’s no position that makes this easier, no magic solution to the raw power coursing through my body.
Dove never leaves my side, not even for a moment. He feeds me ice chips, massages my back, and whispers encouragement when I feel like I can’t go on. Hours pass. The sky outside the window brightens, darkens, and brightens again.
Finally, Dr. Kirby announces it’s time to push. A primal instinct takes over, something ancient and powerful that lives in my bones. I bear down with every contraction, working with my body in a way I never have before.
But it’s exhausting. After what feels like an eternity of pushing, I collapse back against the pillows, tears streaming down my face.
“I can’t,” I sob. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Yes, you can,” Dove says, his voice steady and sure. He pushes damp hair from my forehead, his eyes locked on mine. “You’re the strongest person I know, Ellie. You’ve got this.”
“It’s impossible.”
“You scaled cliffs to photograph rare birds. You survived an Antarctic blizzard. You can do this.” His hand tightens around mine. “Our daughter is almost here. You’re doing amazing.”
Something in his words reaches me, reigniting a spark of determination. With the next contraction, I gather every last reserve of strength I have and push with everything in me.
Dove peeks between my legs, his face transforming with wonder. “I can see her head, Ellie! She’s so close. So close, honey. She’s right there.”
I bear down one more time, a guttural sound tearing from my throat as I give one final, massive push. There’s a sudden release of pressure, a rushing sensation, and then Dr. Kirby is exclaiming, “She’s out! Here she is!”
A tiny, indignant wail fills the room. Moments later, a squirming, wet little body is placed on my chest. Our daughter—so small, so perfect—blinks up at me with unfocused eyes.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, unable to believe this tiny person was inside me moments ago. I press a gentle kiss to her forehead, overwhelmed by the fierce surge of love that washes through me.
Dove leans down, kissing our daughter’s head and then my forehead. “You were incredible,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so proud of you.”
I stare at our daughter, taking in every detail of her face. She has Dove’s chin, my nose. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.