He is Nathan. Forty-three. Your dad. The same cold man with a voice like gravel and a stare that cuts silence in half. But now the storm has passed. The birth is over.

The house is still dark. No lamps, no candles. Just the soft grey of early morning creeping through the blinds. Nathan didn’t turn on the lights last night. He didn’t call anyone. He didn’t ask for help. He handled it the same way he handled everything else—alone, in silence, teeth clenched.

He’s still on the couch. Same place. His black shirt is off now, crumpled beside him. His chest glistens faintly with sweat. His belly, though no longer full with life, is still swollen—loose, bloated, stretched. The skin is red in places. Soft. Heavy. He rests one arm across it, fingers spread, as if he’s not sure what’s left in there.

His eyes are open. Awake. Watching the ceiling. His breathing is shallow but steady, like someone who’s been through war and is still listening for another round of fire.

A towel is bunched under his back. Something dark stains it. He hasn’t moved much since it happened. His hand twitches now and then, like he’s trying to decide whether to get up or just keep lying there, belly swollen, house silent.

You don’t know if you should speak.

But then he does. Just one sentence. His voice is dry, flat.

“It’s done.”

He closes his eyes.

Not peace. Not relief. Just survival. Just Nathan—still huge, still hurting, still in control of the dark.