37. Charlotte Gallagher #2
I think about it—the real version.
The long nights. The exhaustion. Everything shifting.
“Completely different. Because it won’t be just us anymore. Every decision includes him.”
There’s no regret in it, just truth.
“Yeah.” His arm stays wrapped around me. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“And?”
“I’ve wanted this for a long time. I just never let myself believe it was something we could actually have.”
I turn my head, and he meets me halfway. The kiss is slow, soft—steady in a way that feels like the beginning of everything that comes next.
It’s half past two when I wake to a tightening that’s different from the Braxton Hicks I’ve had for the past couple of weeks. Stronger. More certain. I stay still and breathe through it, watching the clock as it builds, then eases.
All right, baby boy. I was wrong. You do have plans.
Another comes six minutes later.
I stay where I am, in the dark, breathing through it, listening to Dane beside me. I let him sleep as long as I can. Until I can’t. Until there’s a pattern to it that feels real.
I reach across and rest my hand on his arm. “Dane.”
He wakes the way he always does—immediately, fully there. “What is it?”
“I think the baby’s coming.”
He’s upright in seconds. Even in the low light, I can see it—his focus snapping into place, already working through what needs to happen. “How long?”
“I’ve been timing my contractions for about an hour. They’re five to six minutes apart.”
He’s out of bed before I finish, reaching for his phone. “I’ll call the midwife.”
“Not yet. She said call when they’re five minutes apart for an hour.”
He comes straight back, sits beside me, his hand settling on my belly like it belongs there. “Tell me when the next one starts.”
I feel it build—low, tightening, pulling—and reach for him. “There’s one starting now.”
We fall into a rhythm after that.
Watching. Timing. Counting.
“Five minutes,” he says, glancing at his phone.
I nod, breathing through it, waiting for the next.
It comes sooner this time. Stronger.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me, then checks again. “Five.”
I let it pass, my grip tightening on his hand. Another one starts before I’ve fully come down from the last. I breathe through it, slower now.
“They’re getting closer,” he says.
“And more painful.”
The next one hits harder. I close my eyes, ride it out, and when it eases, he’s already moving.
“That’s it,” he says. “I’m calling the midwife.”
She arrives within the hour—a small, quiet woman named Saria. She has the confidence of someone who has guided countless women through this and isn't easily rattled.
She examines me, then smiles. “Six centimeters. You’re well along.”
“Six? Already?” Dane looks at me.
“The early part’s probably been happening for a while,” Saria says. “This baby’s moving beautifully.”
Connor came fast. I told myself it was because something went wrong. Because of the fall. Because he was small.
Maybe this is just what my body does.
“You should call your mum.”
Dane straightens beside me, already reaching for his phone. “Right. She’ll never forgive me if she misses this.”
It rings a few times before she answers.
“Hey… yeah, it’s time. She’s in labor.”
A pause.
“She’s good. Six centimeters already.”
Another pause, softer now.
“Yeah. You’re about to be a grandmother.”
I close my eyes through the next contraction, breathing through it while his voice carries faintly down the hall.
“I’ll keep you updated… yeah. We’re good. I’ve got her.”
When he comes back, he’s composed again. Focused. Everything in place.
“They’re coming,” he says.
Christina insisted they stay nearby instead of going back to Brisbane. Apparently nothing short of a natural disaster is going to make her miss the birth of her grandchild.
“Okay. But I want them to wait outside.” I meet his eyes. “I want this to be between us.”
“Yes,” he says. “Just us.”
The same way it's always been.
The most important moments of my life somehow always come back to Dane and me.
The next hour becomes something I didn’t expect—intense, with barely any space between contractions. One rolls into the next until I lose track of where one ends and another begins.
Dane walks with me through every contraction, up and down the length of the cottage, his hand firm at my lower back. When the pain hits, he presses there, and it’s the only thing that helps.
“Breathe through it,” he says.
“I am breathing.”
“I know.” Softer. “You’re doing so well, babe.”
Back and forth. Kitchen to living room, living room to the porch, then back again. Dane stays with me through all of it—his hand firm at my lower back, his voice steady, guiding me through each one.
Outside, the ocean is still dark, just starting to lighten at the edges. The sky shifts slowly toward gray. It’s exactly how it was with Connor—black when it began, with early morning light creeping in by the time he arrived.
And this feels the same.
When the contractions get closer, Saria fills the tub. The water’s warm, and Dane helps me down into it, his hands steady on me. The relief is almost immediate.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “It helps.”
He stays right there, one hand always on me, finding wherever I need it most. He brushes my hair back from my face and runs a cool cloth over my forehead, down my neck, never letting me forget he's there.
Another contraction builds, stronger and deeper. I tense, drawing in a breath.
“Ooh… Mmm.”
My grip tightens on his arm.
“Saria, there’s a lot of pressure with this one.”
It hits low and hard, different from before.
“I need to push.”
Saria is beside me instantly, pulling on gloves. “Let me check.”
I hold myself steady and breathe through the worst of it, anchored by Dane’s arms around me.
A beat.
“Ten centimeters,” she says. “You’re fully dilated. You can start pushing.”
Dane’s mouth presses to my temple. “He’s coming, babe.”
Another wave builds, and my body takes over, bearing down without waiting for permission.
“You’re almost done now. He’s almost here.”
“It hurts, Dane. There’s so much pressure.” My breath breaks. “Connor didn’t feel like this.”
This is a million times worse.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, holding me tighter. “I’m so sorry, babe. I’d take the pain for you if I could. You know I would.”
And he would.
I nod, but there’s no space to answer. Another surge hits, stronger, instinct taking over completely. I can’t not push.
The pressure turns sharp and burning.
“Oh God—why is it burning so bad?”
It feels like I’m splitting open. I grip Dane harder, a sound tearing out of me.
“I need this to be over. Now!”
“You’re almost finished,” he says. “You’re so close.”
I drag in a breath and push, everything narrowing to that one effort.
Everything burns. I cry out because I can’t stop it—because it feels like there’s no room in my body for him, like I’m coming apart trying to make space.
And then… relief. Instant.
The sound that fills the room stops me cold.
A cry cuts through the room, fierce and outraged. The sound of someone arriving and making sure we know it.
Everything in me stops.
I don’t have words for what happens in that moment.
Something shifts inside me.
Not pain. The opposite.
Like a weight I’ve been carrying for years finally loosens its grip.
Ever since that morning on the island, when Connor came into the world, and there was only silence after, a part of me has been holding its breath.
For the first time, it lets go.
My son cries, loud and alive, and I’m crying with him.
Saria places him on my chest, and I gather him in. He’s heavier than I expected.
I look at his face, red and furious and perfect.
“Look at him.” My voice isn’t quite steady. “Dane, look at him.”
Dane’s expression shifts into something I’ve almost never seen. Completely unguarded. He puts his hand on our son’s back, covering nearly all of it, and the baby startles—then settles under his touch.
“Hey, bub,” Dane says, his voice breaking.
Our son blinks, his cries softening, fading into something more like contentment.
“He knows his dad’s voice.”
Dane lets out a breath that turns into a quiet laugh, then presses his mouth to my temple and stays there.
“He’s absolutely perfect,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” Dane’s arm tightens around me. “He is.”
“He has your dark hair.”
He chuckles. “He does.”
I look down at him—the curve of his cheek, the softness of his hair, the weight of him in my arms—and everything feels exactly as it should.
“Connor would have loved him.”
Dane smiles. “Yeah, he would have.”
I lean back, holding our son close. Everything that matters is here in this room, and I have never felt this full.
“I love you, Char.”
“I love you too.”
Between us, our son makes a small sound—not a cry this time, something softer. Dane’s hand moves in slow circles over his back, and it lands with a kind of clarity I can’t ignore.
This is it.
This is what we were always moving toward.