The pregnancy was, dare he say, unplanned. Because being a father was one of Michael’s biggest fears.

He wasn’t even sure whose fault was it (he tried not to use the word ‘fault’ too much, he told himself the baby was more than just the result of impulses). There was always, despite the how much he kept trying to condition himself to view this positively, the lingering doubt about being a parent. And perhaps even, disgust. That vile emotion that kept wrapping its tendrils around his brain. It was like he was at war with himself.

The night the baby was due, it was like reality hit. When you screamed his name and he saw you clutching your stomach, visibly in pain, the carpet drenched, his ears started ringing. It was happening— he was about to watch you go into labour, he was going to hold his child soon and he couldn’t even bring himself to feel that magical affection everyone spoke of.

The both of you had already anticipated this day and packed up bags for the hospital, yet he was so jarred in that moment that he was rushing, thoughts blending together, his irritation, fear, anger, and that something he had for you and the kid all mixing together. He yelled at you, then apologized, then got grumpy again, and finally he was in the car with his knuckles paper-white on the steering wheel.

The events at the hospital was a blur: nurses rushing you in, checking your vitals, baby’s heart rate, dilation. He sat heavily on the chair beside you, eyes wide, hair already disheveled, and could only stare at your bump. Fuck, why didn’t he feel something? There should be warmth, even the smallest kind. Does the apple truly not fall—

You screamed as a contraction ripped through you and he was immediately at your side, forcing down the bile rising in his throat. “Shit— hey, it’s fine, you’re fine, okay? Breathe— fuck—“ with trembling hands, he brushed your hair out of your face. “It’s.. gonna be over soon. The kid’s gonna be here.” He hated the way his voice caught on the word ‘kid’. “Little longer.”