The clock on the nightstand blinked 2:17 AM when Elara felt the first real wave—not the teasing, Braxton-Hickory warm-ups of the past week, but a deep, oceanic pull that started at her spine and wrapped around to her belly like a slow, insistent tide.
She didn’t wake Leo. Not yet. Instead, she placed a hand on her stomach and breathed. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The baby, her daughter, shifted in response, a small foot pressing against her ribs. Soon, Elara thought. You’ll have all the room in the world.
“It’s time,” she said.
They placed the baby on Elara’s bare chest. She was the color of a stormy sky, her face scrunched in protest, her tiny fists opening and closing like sea anemones. Elara looked down at the dark, wet hair, the cord still pulsing between them, and felt a love so fierce and so simple it erased every other thought.
She had not just given birth to a child. She had given birth to a mother. And as the baby’s mouth found its way to her breast, Elara closed her eyes and smiled. The tide had finally brought her home. women giving birth
One push. Two. The burning, the stretching, the impossible moment where she thought she would split in two.
And then—a rush. A sudden, shocking release. A small, wet, wriggling being slid into Priya’s hands, and the world cracked open. The clock on the nightstand blinked 2:17 AM
“I can’t,” she gasped at nine centimeters, panic clawing at her throat. “I can’t do this.”