32. Katy
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
katy
THIS GOT REAL
The moment I saw Ben in the doorway, my instinct for one stupid second was to smile and tell him thank you for coming and keep the last wall standing.
I reached for him instead.
And I’m glad I did, because then the pain changed into something that took over. Like my body decided this is happening now, and my opinion is irrelevant.
I clutch Ben’s t-shirt through another contraction, crying out before I can stop myself.
“I can’t,” I sob. “I can’t do this. I can’t…”
“Yes, you can,” Ben says immediately. Not loud or panicked. Certain. “You’re doing it right now.”
I shake my head wildly. “I’m scared.”
“I know.” He brushes my hair back with hands that are warm and steady. “It’s okay, I’m right here.”
The nurse asks me questions I barely understand. How far apart. How intense. I try to answer and fail.
“I want an epidural,” I gasp. “I don’t care. I want one. Right now.”
Ben nods before anyone else can speak. “Okay. We’ll do that.”
I look at him, desperate. “Tell them to hurry!”
“Okay, I’m on it.”
The relief when the epidural kicks in makes me cry all over again. I’m exhausted and shaky.
Ben stays right there, one hand wrapped around mine, thumb rubbing slow circles into my skin like he’s anchoring me to the bed.
“I’m still scared,” I admit quietly.
“That’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to be fearless. You just have to keep going. I’ll do the rest with you. And remember, no mooing.”
That gets a real laugh out of me.
Time blurs after that.
Voices come and go. Lights shift. Pressure builds in a way that’s different from the pain before. Heavier. More insistent.
The doctor looks between my legs and then up at me. “Okay, Katy. It’s time to push.”
My heart slams into my ribs. “What?”
Ben straightens instantly. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s do this.”
I shake my head. “No, but I don’t know how to do this. We didn’t practice enough.”
“Yes, you do,” he says, moving into position. He lifts my leg carefully, settling my knee against his shoulder, his grip solid and unyielding. “There’s not a right way to do this. Just a Katy and Ben way. Come on, I’ve got you. Lean into me.”
The contraction builds fast.
“Okay,” the doctor says. “Push.”
I scream. There’s no dignity left, no pride. Just effort and fear and everything in my body bearing down.
Ben presses his forehead to mine. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re doing it. You’re so strong.”
“I hate this,” I sob.
“I know,” he says. “I know. Push again.”
I do. I don’t know how long it lasts. I lose track of time and breath and thought. There’s just Ben’s voice and my body and the feeling that this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Between pushes, I sag back against the pillows, shaking.
“I can’t do another one,” I whisper.
Ben kisses my temple, sweat and all. “You can. And I won’t let you stop.”
The next contraction hits and I scream again, pushing with everything I have.
“Good,” he says urgently. “Just like that. I’m right here. Look at me.”
I cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the room. And somehow, impossibly, my body listens. Everything narrows.
The room feels too bright and too far away at the same time, like I’m underwater. My body is exhausted in a way I didn’t know was possible—shaking, empty, spent.
The doctor tells me to push again and I laugh weakly. No. It’s impossible.
“I don’t have anything left,” I whisper.
Ben’s hand tightens around mine. “You do.” His voice is soft. “Just a little more. I’m right here.”
I look at him. His hair is damp with sweat, jersey wrinkled and stained, eyes red and focused entirely on me. Like nothing else in the world exists.
“Okay,” I breathe.
The next contraction builds slowly, giving me just enough warning to panic.
“Ben,” I whimper. “I’m so tired.”
He leans down, forehead pressing into mine. “I know. But you’re not alone. You haven’t been alone this whole time.”
The doctor’s voice cuts in gently. “Okay, Katy. Big push.”
I bear down with everything I have left.
The pressure is overwhelming and I cry out, gripping Ben’s shoulders as my body does what it needs to do.
“Good,” he murmurs urgently. “That’s it. I’ve got you. I won’t let go. And see? You haven’t mooed in this entire time.”
I don’t know how long I push. I lose track of the counting, the voices, the world.
Then suddenly—
“Okay,” the doctor says. “One more. This is it.”
I shake my head, sobbing. “I can’t. I can’t.”
Ben cups my face, forcing my eyes to his. His voice drops low and steady.
“Yes, you can.” He steadies me. “This is the last one. We’re right there.”
I nod shakily.
When the contraction hits, I push harder than I thought possible. Everything burns. Everything stretches. I scream his name without even meaning to.
And then—
A sound cuts through the room. Sharp. New. Alive. For a second, I don’t understand what I’m hearing.
Then the doctor smiles wide. “That’s your baby.”
My whole body goes slack.
I start crying immediately, huge, heaving sobs that come from somewhere deep and broken open.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “Oh my God.”
Ben lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. His hands are shaking now, even though he’s trying to stay steady for me.
“You did it,” he whispers, awed. “You did it.”
They place the baby on my chest, warm and slippery and impossibly small. My hands hover for a second, afraid to touch.
Ben’s hand guides mine gently. “It’s okay.”
I rest my palm against the baby’s back and something in me cracks wide open.
“Hi,” I whisper. “Hi, baby.”
The world feels quiet again. Soft. Like everything loud has finally passed.
Ben presses his cheek to my temple. I can feel him crying now, silent and unguarded.
“You did it,” he murmurs.
I turn my head slightly, just enough to look at him.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For coming. And for staying.”
He shakes his head, voice thick. “There was nowhere else I wanted to be.”
I swallow, emotions crashing over me all at once—fear, relief, love, regret.
“I was so afraid to need you,” I admit.
He kisses my hair. “I don’t mind being needed.”
The baby squirms against my chest, letting out a tiny noise.
Ben laughs quietly through his tears. “I think he knows my voice.”
My heart squeezes painfully.
“I think he’s missed you. Can you stay a little longer?” I ask softly.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I know he’s not.
The baby shifts against my chest again, making a tiny, startled sound. I laugh weakly through my tears and brush my thumb over his head.
“Oh,” I whisper, blinking hard. “Ben.”
He leans closer immediately. “What?”
I stare down at the baby again, dazed.
“He’s blond,” I whisper.
Ben huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “I know. He’s very cute.”
“No,” I say, more certain now. “Like Winters blond. Look, it’s even a little wavy too.”
That gets his attention.
I’ve seen pictures of Ben as a baby. And my son looks exactly like him.
My throat tightens. I’ve spent nine months wishing for this, but I never let myself believe I’d be so lucky.
I glance up at Ben, my voice shaking in a way I haven’t let it in months.
“None of the other guys are blond.” Tears spill down my face. “I think he’s yours.”
The words settle between us.
Simple and certain.
Ben’s breath catches.
He presses a hand over his mouth, eyes shining as he looks down at the baby like he’s seeing him for the first time.
“Hey,” he whispers. His voice breaks. “Hey, buddy.”
I watch something in him settle. Lock in.
And for once I don’t feel like I’m just borrowing this moment.
It’s really ours.
The rain hasn’t stopped since I started pushing.
By the time I’m holding my son, all I can think is that storms seem to follow the best moments of my life. And Ben has always been there holding me through every one of them.
Our room is quiet except for the steady patter of rain against the windows and the ridiculous suction noises this little one is making. He’s apparently a champion at breastfeeding.
Every time I try to pull him away, he protests immediately—kicking, hiccupping, face scrunched like he’s ready to file a formal complaint.
I put him back where he wants to be. He latches instantly, like he’s been starving his entire life. I laugh, the sound breaking into a sob I didn’t mean to let out.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Slow down, little man.”
Ben hovers a few feet away like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His hair is a mess. His eyes are glassy and red-rimmed.
“You can come closer, you know,” I say softly.
He blinks. “Are you sure?”
“Ben.” I smile, exhausted. “You’ve been here for every horrible contraction, you don’t get to be shy now.”
I shift the baby slightly toward him, and he steps forward. When I place the baby in his arms, he moves like he’s afraid to breathe too hard.
The tiny menace is very unhappy about leaving my chest. But the moment he settles against Ben, he quiets.
Our son. Seeing them together makes something inside me go completely still.
Ben looks down at him, awe spreading slowly across his face. “Hey, buddy,” he whispers.
The baby blinks up at him, and both of us freeze.
His eyes are light blue.
Ben’s voice catches. “Look at that.” He swallows. “He’s got my eyes too.”
My throat tightens. I nod. “And he even has the same nose, I think.”
Ben lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah… seems that way.” He shakes his head slightly, still staring. “I think he’s overcompensating for all the paternity drama. Making it real clear for everyone.”
I feel my heart tighten in that soft, beautiful way that only happens when the world finally gives back what it took.
Ben runs his thumb gently along the baby’s cheek. He still looks like he can’t quite believe this is real. “Remember when I told you not to pretend you didn’t want the baby to have my eyes?”
I laugh through a tear. “How could I forget? You were so obnoxious about it.”
He finally looks up at me, eyes bright and raw. “Yeah, well.” A crooked grin pulls at his mouth. “Turns out the universe listened and decided to grant you your wish, Katy Cat.”
Then the idiot winks.
I groan. “You’re insufferable.”
Ben lowers himself into the chair beside the bed, still cradling the baby against his chest.
I watch them both. The matching hair. The identical eyes catching the same light. And I realize something quietly, completely.
The storm is finally over.
And Ben was always my shelter.
BEN
The nurses filter out quietly. And then it’s just us.
Katy’s eyes are already closing, her body finally surrendering to the exhaustion she’s been fighting for hours. I watch her for a moment, and then I look down at my son. Jesus. He’s my son.
He’s already asleep too, his face relaxed and perfect, his mouth slightly open. His hair is damp against his head, that unmistakable golden blond.
I’ve been holding it together all day. Through the phone call.
Through running to the hospital in my game jersey, still sweating.
Through every contraction I couldn’t take from her, every time she squeezed my hand hard enough to hurt and I was glad for it because at least that part I could give her.
But now the room is quiet, and Katy is asleep and there’s nobody left to hold it together for.
So I stop.
I press my lips together and stare at the ceiling for a second, jaw working. My hands are still shaking. I don’t think they’ve stopped since he was born.
I look back down at him.
He’s mine.
Nine months of telling myself it didn’t matter whose he was—and it didn’t, I meant every word of that, I would have shown up regardless—but this. This is different. This is something I don’t have a word for yet. Something that didn’t exist before this moment.
I think about every appointment I sat in.
Every contraction I talked her through. Every night I spent reading something I barely understood in a baby book because I wanted to be prepared, wanted to be useful, wanted to be the kind of person she could lean on without worrying she was asking for too much.
I exhale slowly, not trusting my voice.
“Hey,” I whisper to him.
He doesn’t stir.
I run my thumb along the edge of his cheek, the way Katy did earlier, and he turns his face instinctively toward the warmth.
I let out a breath, shakier than I intend.
“I've known about you for a while now,” I tell him quietly. “And I’ve been trying to be a good dad.”
He makes a small sound. Not a cry. Just a presence.
“I’m gonna keep trying,” I say. “I’m not always going to get it right.” I pause, jaw tight. “But I’m going to be here. Every time.”
I’ve spent my whole life wondering if I was enough.
But standing here, holding him, I don’t wonder.
“Welcome to the world, buddy,” I murmur.