Chapter 29 #2
He’s dressed and calling Dr. Miller’s emergency line within ninety seconds. I time him because it’s funnier than counting contractions. Miller answers on the third ring and tells us to head to the hospital when contractions are five minutes apart or if my water breaks, whichever comes first.
My water breaks forty minutes later in the bathroom, and Adrian has me in the car before I finish drying my hands.
Fedor drives, and Viktor rides shotgun because apparently the birth of our children requires Adrian’s righthand man, and I get it.
I’ve already texted Marisol to prepare to come in when she gets clearance.
At the hospital, Dr. Miller meets us in the labor suite.
“Thirty-seven weeks is full term for twins,” he says while reviewing the monitors.
“Baby A is head down and in position. Baby B is transverse, which means we’ll monitor closely during delivery.
If B doesn’t turn after A is born, we may need to pivot to a C-section for the second baby.
I want you prepared for that possibility. ”
“Prepared.” I grip the bed rail as another contraction hits. “I’m prepared for anything that ends with both babies breathing…and out of me sooner rather than later.”
“Do you want to rethink natural birth?” asks Dr. Miller in a neutral tone.
Contractions are much worse than I had expected, but I shake my head. “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”
Adrian stands beside me. He hasn’t sat down since we arrived, and he holds my hand through each contraction with a grip that matches mine in intensity.
Between contractions, he asks Miller precise questions about fetal heart rates, dilation progress, and intervention thresholds, and Miller answers each one without irritation because Adrian is asking the questions I would ask if I weren’t focused on breathing through the pain.
The labor progresses fast. Dr. Miller checks me at four centimeters, then six, offering paid meds again with the gentle reminder it’s my last chance.
I decline, and we’re soon at eight as the gaps between contractions shrink until I’m gripping Adrian’s hand continuously.
The pain is immense but productive. I breathe through it because the alternative is screaming, and I don’t have the focus to scream right now.
“You’re doing this,” Adrian says. He’s close to my ear, and his voice is low; only I can hear him. “You’re doing this, and I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’d better not.” I squeeze his hand hard enough that he winces. “You did this to me.”
He laughs softly. “Technically, we did this to each other.”
Less amused, I glare at him. “We’ll discuss attribution after I push two humans out of my body. I think I get final say.”
He squeezes my hand. “You’ve earned that.”
At ten centimeters, Dr. Miller positions himself and tells me to push with the next contraction. I push, push, push, and push again over the next few minutes. The pain becomes a singular, consuming force. I hold Adrian’s hand and bear down with everything I have.
Braden arrives at 5:47 a.m. with a cry that fills the room and a head of dark hair like his father’s. Dr. Miller places him on my chest, and I hold my son and forget every other experience I’ve ever had because none of them prepared me for this.
Adrian looks at Braden on my chest, trying to speak but failing.
He presses his forehead against my temple and stays there, breathing against my skin.
Then he straightens and touches Braden’s back with one hand, touching so lightly the baby probably doesn’t feel it.
“He won’t break,” I whisper, and he plants his palm against Braden’s back, applying gentle pressure.
“Baby B is turning,” Miller says. He’s watching the monitor, and the tension in the room shifts as the medical team adjusts. “She’s moving into position. Give me a moment.”
The moment lasts three minutes. A nurse takes Braden and places him in a warmer while Miller manually guides Diana’s rotation with external pressure on my stomach.
The discomfort is sharp and strange, making me wish I’d agreed to an epidural after all.
I grip the bed rail with both hands while Adrian keeps one hand on my shoulder and watches Miller work.
“She’s head down.” Miller nods to the team. “We’re delivering vaginally. Aurora, I need you to push on the next contraction.”
I push. Diana is smaller than Braden and arrives faster, sliding into Miller’s hands at 6:12 a.m. with a cry that’s higher and sharper than her brother’s.
Miller places her on my chest in the space Braden just occupied, and I hold my daughter, finally understanding why my mom described this moment like awareness of gravity.
Everything in the room pulls toward this small, furious person in my arms.
Adrian leans down and kisses Diana’s head, then mine. “Both of them,” he says, cracking on the second word, “Here and beautiful.
“Yes, they are.” Tears sting my eyes, and I don’t try to fight them.
By late afternoon, my postpartum room has filled with the only people who matter.
Irina sits in the chair beside the bed, confidently holding Braden like she’s been rehearsing this moment for thirty years.
Mom stands beside her, photographing everything on her phone and crying openly without apology.
David waits in the hallway with coffee he brought for everyone, comfortable in the periphery.
Marisol arrives last, carrying a gift bag and wearing sunglasses she doesn’t remove until she sees the babies.
She takes them off, sets them on the table, and reaches for Diana without asking permission.
I hand her my daughter, and Marisol holds her with the terrified, awed grip of a first-time godmother who spent months preparing for this and still isn’t quite ready.
“She’s perfect.” Marisol’s voice is thick as she looks at Braden in Irina’s arms. “They’re both perfect.”
Viktor stands in the doorway. He gives Adrian a nod that carries operational confirmation, personal congratulations, and seventeen years of shared history in a single movement, or so I interpret.
I’ll never know Viktor as well as Adrian does.
Whatever message he’s conveying, Adrian seems to understand as he nods back.
I lean against the pillows with Braden back in my arms and Adrian beside me. He has one hand on Diana’s back and the other on my shoulder. The room is noisy and alive with the people who fought for us to be here.
“I want to get married at the estate,” I say suddenly. It just pops into my mind, and now feels like the right time.
He looks at me. “I started planning it the night you said yes.”
My laugh fills the room, and Diana startles in Marisol’s arms. She tells Adrian to keep his voice down, and Irina tells Marisol the babies need to learn to sleep through noise.
Mom takes another photograph just as Braden lets out a wet belch that makes everyone laugh, and the chaos doesn’t feel like something I need to survive but a reward I’ve earned.