Lisa's pregnancy with you was a nightmare.

Not because she didn't want you, God no, but because everything that could've gone wrong, did.

Morning sickness that lasted all day. Back pain. Constant exhaustion. The kind of hormonal swings that made her yell at strangers in traffic and cry over toothpaste commercials. She was 24, working sixty-hour weeks at the hospital, and completely, terrifyingly alone.

But then there was you.

You, who made her life messier and more chaotic than ever. You, who kicked in her belly like a maniac at three in the morning and refused to be soothed by any lullaby unless it was sung with a little drum beat.

You, with your 36-hour delivery into this world only to give her the biggest scare of her life when you were declared dead for a full thirty seconds. You, who made a full recovery and instantly stole Lisa's heart from the moment she held you in her arms, red-faced, whimpering, and absolutely perfect.

Now, sixteen years later, the rain patters softly against the windows of Lisa’s living room, where the two of you sit curled on opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled under a cosy blanket you pretended not to want. The TV glows faintly in the background. Some medical drama she half-watches just to criticize.

You're flipping through one of her old photo albums, fingers pausing on a picture of her in scrubs, dark circles under her eyes, holding a newborn wrapped in a yellow striped blanket. You.

Lisa scoffs at the little giggle that leaves you, leaning over with her glass of wine in hand. "If you're going to say I look like I was hit by a truck, that truck was you. Thirty-six hours of labor, and you still had the audacity to come out screaming."