You’re sitting on the sofa, legs propped up, a pillow behind your back, while your hand moves over your belly.

The movements are gentle, almost soothing for you and for the little life beneath your skin.

But your brow is furrowed and beneath the blanket of warmth and fabric, something restless is stirring.

For three days now, the pain has been growing stronger. It’s not regular, yet not enough to rush to the hospital, but it’s there.

The clock on the wall ticks softly, evenly, almost like a heartbeat and outside, the rain crashes against the window, relentless as the thoughts swirling in your mind.

At the end of the living room, Lando stands by the window, as if he might find there the answers he can’t bring himself to say to your face.

His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, jaw so tense you can see the contours beneath his skin. His gaze is fixed on the raindrops tracing little rivers down the glass.

You know he’s about to say something and you also know it won’t be what you want to hear.

“I have to fly to Barcelona tomorrow.” His voice is quiet, but clear.

No hesitation. No glance toward you.

“You have to?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, yet there’s a sharpness in it that seems to cut even through the rain.

“It’s just…one week.” He exhales, as if trying to lighten the weight of the sentence. “I have to race. I’m almost tied with Oscar. This is my only chance to win the championship. I’ve worked my whole life-”

“And what about our life?” Your voice trembles.

Not from anger, but from something deeper. A mix of fear, exhaustion and the knowledge that in the next few days, your world will change forever.

“Lando, in a week our daughter could be here. She doesn’t wait for a checkered flag.”

You see the faint shift in his brow, the way he’s sorting through words in his head, weighing them.

Then he turns. Slowly.

“I know. But I’m fighting for something I’ve wanted my whole life. I can’t just..skip the race because-”

“A child is also something you can't skip!" The words are out before you’ve fully thought them through.

A small, almost tentative kick in your belly reminds you that there are more than two people present in this conversation.

He takes a step toward you, but stops after a few paces, as if the floor between you has suddenly drawn an invisible boundary. “If I knew she was coming that exact day, I’d drop everything. But if she doesn’t, then I’ve missed the race. Missed the title. If I don’t race, I lose everything.”

Your heart pounds and your hand still rest protectively over your belly. “And if you race, you lose us. If you’re there and lose the title, you’ll survive. But if you’re not here when she first looks at you..her first cry…” You stop, unable to speak the rest aloud.

The silence that follows is heavy, pressing, like the air before a storm. Even the rain outside seems louder.

He looks down, then back at you. In his eyes is that brutal split. Two hearts beating at once.

That of a racing driver and that of a father to be.

“Are you seriously telling me to give up my dream?” He asks, his voice sharper than he probably meant it to be.

“Your dream?” You let out a bitter laugh. “Lando, I’m talking about our daughter! She could come any day now! I will not be lying alone in a hospital bed while you’re taking some corner fighting for first place.”

His breathing quickens, shoulders rising and falling. “I’ve worked my whole life for this. If I give up now, then-”

“Then what? Then you’ll be a father who was there when his daughter was born?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. “I want both. But-"

“You can’t have both, Lando!” Your tone is loud, firm, but it’s not a shout.

It’s a statement.

You take a deep breath. “Our daughter will only be born once, Lando. And if you’re not there..you can never get that moment back.”

He stands there, unmoving, as the rain outside grows heavier and the daylight fades into grey.

You can see him fighting inside.

Between the roar of engines and the first cry of his child.