Hemorrhaging.The word detonates in my soul, tearing through every hope I've carried for the past nine months.Lose them both. Lose your family.My God, why is this happening? This isn't supposed to happen this way. We were supposed to go home together, all three of us.No. I refuse to accept any scenario where we don't walk out together as a family the way it was always meant to be.
"Laney?" I squeeze her hand, but her grip is weaker now, her eyes unfocused. "Baby, look at me."
Her eyelids flutter open, and for a moment, she's there—really there. "Don't leave me," she whispers, and it's barely audible over the chaos erupting around us.
"Sir, please." A nurse has her hand on my arm, gentle but insistent. "The surgical team needs to come in."
I lean down, pressing my forehead against hers, memorizing the feel of her skin and the scent of her hair beneath the hospital's antiseptic. "I'm not leaving you. I'm going to be right outside that door, and when you wake up, I'll be the first thing you see. You and our baby. You hear me?" I grind out, fighting back tears, emulating strength when, inside, I'm shattering.
She nods weakly, and I press a kiss to her lips—soft, desperate, tasting of salt and fear and fourteen hours of shared breath.
"I love you," I whisper against her mouth. "Fight for us, Laney. Fight for our baby."
"Sir!" Dr. Martinez's voice cuts through everything. "Now!"
I force myself to let go of her hand, to step back as the surgical team floods in. The last thing I see before the door closes is Laney's face, pale and beautiful and fighting, as they wheel in equipment I don't want to recognize.
And then I'm in the hallway, my back against the cold wall, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor with my head in my hands, listening to the controlled chaos on the other side of that door and praying to every god I've ever heard of that I won't lose them both.
"I'll do anything," I whisper to the empty hallway. "God, please, don't take the girl." The tears fall freely now as I bargain with a god I've never met. "I know I've asked for a lot over the years. I've prayed for nights with her I don't deserve, so you can make this my last request." My hands are shaking so hard I can barely form the words. "Take me instead. Take my breath, take my heart, take every year I have left, and give them to her. Give them to our baby."
I run my hands through my hair, surrendering to the sobs I was fighting to hold back. "She's good," I choke out, pressing my palms against my eyes. "She's pure and kind, and she makes the world better just by existing in it. Please, God. I'll spend the rest of my life on my knees if you just let me hear her laugh one more time. Let me see our baby take their first breath." Another sob breaks from my chest, ugly and desperate. "Please don't take my girls. Please don't make me bury my heart."
My words dissolve into sobs, and my entire body shakes as I rock back and forth, completely broken, completely lost, completely at the mercy of forces I can't control or understand. And then, like someone pressed pause on the world, the chaos behind the door falls silent. It could be an answered prayer, or it could be the end.
The quiet stretches, heavy and terrible, pressing down on melike a weight I can't bear. I know that silence. I've heard it before in movies, in stories, in nightmares I never thought would become real. It's the silence that comes after. The silence that means it's over.
One way or another, it's over.
The first thingI see when I wake up is sunlight. Real sunlight, not the fluorescent glare that's been burning into my retinas for what feels like forever. It streams through the window of what I slowly realize is a different room, quieter, softer, with pale-yellow walls instead of sterile white. I'm still in the same clothes from yesterday, wrinkled and stiff with dried sweat and tears, but none of that matters because there, in the bed not three feet away, is Laney. Alive and breathing.
Her color is back, not the terrifying gray that has haunted my thoughts every time I close my eyes, but her real color—warm and pink and beautifully alive. And cradled against her chest, wrapped in a soft pink blanket, is our daughter. I must make some sound, because Laney's eyes flutter open and find mine immediately. When she smiles, it's like watching the sun rise after the longest night of my life.
"Hey," she whispers, her voice hoarse but real…so fucking real.
"Hey, yourself." I can barely get the words out past the lump in my throat. I'm afraid to move, afraid to breathe too hard, afraid this might all be some cruel dream my exhausted mind has conjured up.
"Come here," she says, shifting carefully to make room on the narrow hospital bed. "Come meet our daughter."
Our daughter.The words hit me like a miracle, and suddenly, I'm moving without thinking. The bed dips as I settle beside them, and for the first time in what feels like years, I can breathe again. She's perfect. Tiny and wrinkled and absolutely flawless, with blondehair that's definitely Laney's and little fists that are already reaching for the world around her. When I touch her cheek with one finger, her skin is soft and warm. It's that same warmth that solidifies this is real and not a dream.
"She's been waiting for you," Laney murmurs, adjusting the blanket so I can see her better. "The nurses said she wouldn't stop fussing until they brought her in here where she could hear your voice."
That makes me smile. Last night, I wasn't able to see Laney right away after they wheeled her down to an ICU unit for further observation. I spent those hours praying and telling our baby girl all about her mom, how amazing she is, and how hard she fought to meet her. I filled the space until she came back to us, and my little girl listened.
"I get to keep you," I whisper, the confession spilling out before I can stop it. It's not a statement. It's a prayer of gratitude for a gift I thought had been taken away. "I get to keep you both."
Laney's hand finds mine, her fingers intertwining with mine in a way that feels like coming home. "I wasn't going to leave you," she says softly, squeezing my hand. "Not when we just got our little miracle." She looks down at our baby. "Plus, I promised I'd take your last name. I couldn't leave you stranded at the altar," she says, attempting to lighten the mood, and I smile softly, grateful I get the chance to listen to her voice.
In my mind, we're already married. She's wearing my ring, we're building our home, and she just gave birth to our daughter. She's always been my forever, but we haven't made it official on paper. Once I slipped the ring on her finger, her mother and the girls began bombarding her with questions about dresses, venues, and themes. I thought it was overwhelming. It is overwhelming, but seeing the smiles that planning it has put on everyone's faces, I see how right Laney was to turn down my courthouse wedding. We would have missed out on something special if we hadn't included our friends and family.
"I thought I lost you." The confession tumbles out before I canstop it. "Both of you. I thought..." I can't finish, can't voice those fears now that they're safely in the past.
"But you didn't." Her thumb traces over my knuckles, soothing and sure. "We're right here. We're not going anywhere."
Our daughter makes a tiny sound, not quite a cry, more like she's testing out her voice, and both of us look down at her in wonder.
"Have you thought of a name?" I ask. We've had names picked out for months, but we never settled on one. We knew we'd wait until the baby arrived to see what fit.
