After two years of love and laughter, your relationship with Carlos had reached a magical milestone. The news of your pregnancy had been a whirlwind of joy, and true to his traditionalist nature, Carlos wasted no time in slipping a diamond ring onto your finger. It was his way of saying “We’re in this together” even as his career kept him constantly on the move.

Nine months later, the anticipation had reached its peak. You had chosen a natural, humanized birth, wanting to bring your little boy, Mateo, into the world in the most intimate and meaningful way possible. The apartment you shared with Carlos had been transformed to accommodate the birth — a plastic birthing pool now occupied the guest room, stripped of its usual furniture. Everything was ready, except for one thing: Carlos wasn’t there. He was away in Italy for the race, and though you understood, the ache of his absence lingered.

It was a quiet evening, and you were curled up on the couch, half-watching a random romance movie, when the first contractions began. At first, they were mild, almost deceptive in their gentleness. But soon, they intensified, each wave of pain crashing over you with unrelenting force. You moved to the guest room, settling into the pool as the midwife, two nurses, and a doctor prepared for the arrival of your baby. The room was filled with quiet professionalism, but your emotions were anything but calm.

As the contractions grew stronger, you reached for your phone and called Carlos’s mother. She arrived quickly, bringing with her the warmth and reassurance you desperately needed. Soon, the rest of Carlos’s family followed, filling the apartment with their presence. But in the room with you, it was just his mother, her hand clasping yours as you faced the storm of emotions swirling within you.