By the moment the expected delivery day came, our social circle and relatives were ready for celebration. We were entirely invested, mind and spirit.
The birthing process seemed to last forever. Medical staff shouted instructions, machines chimed noisily, and my wife’s screams bounced around inside my mind. I hardly found a second to press her fingers before a medical worker rushed her out of sight.
“Hold on, where are you moving her?” I shouted, almost stumbling across my own boots.
“She requires a moment, sir. We will fetch you shortly,” the worker replied, standing in my way.
I marched up and down the corridor, imagining every terrible outcome. My hands felt slippery with dampness. My sole option was to tally the lines in the flooring and hope for the best.
As a different worker ultimately signaled me to enter, my chest was pounding intensely.
My spouse rested there, clinical bulbs glaring down upon her, gripping a pair of small shapes concealed within their covers. Her entire frame trembled.
“Lily?” I hurried nearer. “Are you alright? Is it the agony? Do I need to fetch a doctor?”
She avoided meeting my gaze; she merely pulled the infants tighter against her chest.
