EPILOGUE Callum
EPILOGUE
Callum
December
It’s an odd combination of relief and panic rushing through me on Christmas Eve when her water breaks.
During the last month of pregnancy, we’ve spent almost every spare minute at the doctor’s.
Our focus has been on making sure our little girl is growing okay and that Sophie is healthy.
That’s the most important thing to me. Sophie’s body has already been through too much.
I wanted this pregnancy to be as easy as possible for her.
Thankfully, she didn’t suffer the insane side effects I read women go through during pregnancy.
Researching the pregnancy late at night on my phone as Sophie slept beside me made me pull her closer, grateful to be a man.
She didn’t experience any morning sickness.
I had joked that she experienced enough nausea for a lifetime through chemo.
I read that some women can feel sick constantly—hyperemesis gravidarum—which sounded like hell.
Sophie’s pregnancy seemed relatively easy... for the first couple of months.
The more the baby grew, the more uncomfortable she became. I felt awful knowing it was because of me. Sophie had laughed when I said that the first time, just as she did when I thanked her after she told me she was pregnant.
God, that day...
It’s amazing how an ordinary day can suddenly become wonderful. That’s how it was when Sophie first walked into the shop. I was in the middle of a mundane inventory check with my mom, chatting about nothing important, not realizing how quickly my world would change.
That day, Sophie left the shop early for a doctor's appointment, saying she'd see me at home—routine and familiar. Then, everything shifted.
When she showed me the ultrasound, I felt the world tilt beneath my feet. In an instant, once again, everything changed. Now we were three. Sophie was growing our daughter in her body.
That day is right up there with the best days of my life—the day I met Sophie, the day she was declared cancer-free, the day she agreed to marry me, our wedding day, the day we found out we were having a girl, and now the day of our daughter’s birth.
Sophie had started experiencing pelvic pain around the sixth month of pregnancy, needing to sit more to take the pressure off her hips.
Then she started having shortness of breath in month seven.
Her OB explained that our baby girl was pressing against her diaphragm and not giving her lungs enough room to expand.
Sophie, of course, took that easily and made some jokes, but I had just felt even more resolved to make this easier for her.
Then I went home and watched a video of how a baby shifts around mom’s organs during the growth process, and it was scarier than any horror movie I’ve ever seen.
How women aren’t just told to rest the entire duration of their pregnancy and given everything they ever want is beyond me.
The last two months were miserable for my poor wife.
I had never been more grateful that she decided to quit her job and take on the office work at the store, so my mom, her sister, and I could keep an eye on her and help with anything she needed.
Unfortunately, neither of us was getting much sleep.
Sophie, because she couldn’t find a comfortable position to rest in, and me, because I couldn’t rest while she was in pain.
The morning of Christmas Eve is spent normally.
I help Sophie shower, holding her up and washing her back, legs, and hair.
I help her get dressed in comfy, stretchy clothes, then practically carry her down the stairs.
I settle her on the couch, tucked beneath our thick red throw blanket, with the Christmas tree twinkling nearby while Sophie turns on a Christmas movie.
I grab her a water bottle and her snacks so she doesn’t have to get up.
Only once she’s settled do I kiss her and head outside to chop wood.
Our due date is tomorrow, so we just play the waiting game.
I am barely twenty minutes into splitting logs when the sliding glass door opens and Sophie’s standing in the doorway.
“Baby,” I call, already moving toward her, “get back inside, it’s freezing, you shouldn’t be standing—” The words die in my throat when I finally get close enough to see her clearly. Her light grey lounge pants have darkened all the way down her legs. “Oh..."
“Your daughter is impatient,” she manages through clenched teeth, a shaky laugh breaking through, and her eyes glowing with happiness. “It’s time.”
The ride to the hospital is slow and careful, Sophie calmly calling her doctor to let her know that the baby is coming while I focus on not coming out of my skin with worry. Tess and Tonya are already en route with my mom to meet us there, the store having already been closed for the holiday.
I reach out my hand to lay on Sophie’s belly, and she lays her hand over mine when contractions build, squeezing through the pain.
She could break it if she wanted, anything to help her pain.
Each time she exhales, I feel our daughter moving beneath my palm, already strong, already demanding to enter the world.
I remember the first time I felt her move.
Sophie was in her fifth month of pregnancy. We were cuddled on the couch, having our usual movie night, when she laughed at the movie and suddenly gasped. I sat up in alarm but Sophie just looked at me with a wide, incredulous smile before she grabbed my hand and laid it on her belly.
Then I felt it.
I felt her.
A firm kick against my palm that made me jump.
“That’s her,” Sophie whispered in awe, her beautiful eyes sparkling. “That’s our baby.”
Sophie laughed again, and there it was again, a firmer kick.
“I think she likes the sound of her mommy’s laugh, sweet girl,” I murmured, in complete awe. Our baby was in there, moving around, growing, and developing, so we can meet her in a few months. When she moved again, I felt my throat tighten. “Hi, little otter.”
“I think she likes the sound of her daddy’s voice,” Sophie says, removing one hand from her belly to caress my cheek.
Every day, I fall more and more in love with this woman.
I didn’t think it was possible to keep falling deeper in love with Sophie Rhodes every day, but it turns out there is no end to the love I feel for her.
It’s limitless, and I’m quite alright with that.
“You’re doing amazing, baby,” I tell Sophie in the car ride to the hospital, seeing her smile at me as she tries to control her breathing. Her face is twisted in pain, contractions battering through her body, but she can still put a smile on her face for me.
My wife, my heart burns with pride for her.
“Matilda,” Sophie murmurs, a tear trailing down her cheek. She laughs like she can’t believe it. “We’re going to meet her today.”
“Our little Christmas miracle,” I say, grabbing one of her hands and placing a kiss on it.
When we arrive, they are ready for us, and Dr. Ramirez greets us with a warm, excited smile. “Are we ready to meet Matilda today?”
“Yes, please,” Sophie says, settled on the hospital bed.
Her temples are dripping with sweat, her face twisted in pain, she’s out of breath, and still looking like the most goddamn beautiful person on Earth.
It humbles me, and I do what I can, keeping my hand in hers and letting her squeeze until my fingers ache, soothing her through contraction after contraction.
I gently dab at her sweaty forehead with a cool towel, feed her ice chips when she asks, guide her through breathing, and every other word out of my mouth affirms my love and pride for my wife.
“You’re amazing, Sophie.”
"I’m so excited," she whispers to me with a smile. But when her back arches, she groans in pain. In that moment, my joy is replaced by terror and hope as I try to comfort my wife through this labor that feels endless.
When three hours pass, and there’s still no forward progress, Dr. Ramirez gently suggests we go forward with the C-Section.
This isn’t my call; this is all about Sophie. All I want is for my wife and daughter to be safe and sound.
Sophie nods, “Yeah, let’s do it.”
Two hours later, I sit at my wife’s head in the operating room, my thumb brushing her cheek, kissing her forehead every few breaths. The blue partition hides the surgical field, which I am grateful for, because seeing Sophie’s abdomen open would unravel me entirely.
I murmur soft encouragement, drowning in love and fear, when suddenly a shrill cry slices through the air.
Sophie bursts into tears at the sound, and my own eyes fill as our daughter cries and cries and cries.
Alive. Breathing. Healthy.
“Callum,” Sophie chokes out, and I lean down to her, pressing my face against hers, our tears mixing. “I love you..."
“I love you,” I whisper fiercely, kissing her temple and cheek again and again. “I love you so much. You did so well, baby. I am so proud of you.”
After a couple of minutes, after they clean her up, they bring her over.
When the nurse finally brings her over, swaddled but squirming, I gasp out loud at our daughter’s tiny features, hair dark like mine plastered against her soft head, her mouth wide open as she lets out furious little cries.
“Matilda, here’s your mommy and daddy..." the nurse says warmly, smiling at us.
Our daughter announces herself loudly, showcasing a very healthy set of lungs.
But the second they lay her on Sophie’s chest, skin-to-skin, Matilda quiets.
Her cries fade into soft coos and then little breaths, and she turns her face toward the familiar rhythm of her mother’s heartbeat.
It was the soundtrack of her life while in Sophie’s womb, safe and warm and protected.
I have to say I agree with my daughter.
Sophie is my safe place, too.
“Hi, Matilda, I’m your mommy,” Sophie laughs wetly, pressing kisses to our daughter's face. Matilda seems to recognize the voice and the laugh, and her face visibly relaxes, body going still with peace.