My husband and I had a serious fight. It was one of those arguments that leaves words hanging in the air, heavy and sharp. And then, in the middle of that storm, I went into labor.
I called him. Thirty times. My voice cracked with panic, fear, and pain. But he didn’t answer. I tried again, and again, until finally I gave up. It was my brother who took me to the hospital, supporting me through every contraction, every anxious breath.
Hours passed. Ten long hours. And then, my husband finally responded. My brother, calm but firm, told him the words I’ll never forget: “She didn’t make it.”
The effect was instantaneous. He went pale, dropped everything, and raced to the hospital as if the wind itself were pushing him forward.
For hours, he sat outside the maternity ward, shaking with panic. His mind replayed every missed call, every harsh word from our fight, every moment of pride that had driven a wedge between us.
When the doctor finally stepped out, he braced himself for the worst. But instead of tragedy, he was led into a room where I was holding our healthy baby girl.
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