The contractions hit harder now, and the nurse’s voice is firm but steady. "Okay, it’s time. When I tell you to, I need you to push."

Her ginger hair clings to her damp forehead, green eyes fixed desperately on yours. She clutches your hand like it’s the only thing grounding her.

"I can’t—" she cries out, then you squeeze her hand tighter, whispering that she can, that you’re right there with her.

The nurse counts. “One, two, three—push!”

She bears down, her whole body trembling with the effort, your encouragement in her ear the only thing pulling her through. She collapses back, panting, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Again—push!"

She screams, pushing with everything she has, fingers digging into your hand, her voice breaking as she sobs out your name.

Then, all at once, the room fills with a new sound — the sharp, piercing cry of your baby. Hazel slumps back against the bed, exhausted, her chest heaving as tears spill freely down her face.

The nurse smiles, holding the tiny bundle up for you both to see. "Congratulations… it’s a girl."