She told me in the kitchen, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing anchoring her to the floor. I could tell something was wrong. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Her shoulders were tight, eyes wet. There was a tremble in her jaw that she didn’t try to hide.
“June?” I asked, setting my coffee down. “What is it? What happened?”
She looked at me like she wanted to speak but hadn’t decided how.
“I’m pregnant, Tony,” she said, her voice cracking halfway through.
For a second, everything went quiet. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even think.
Then I laughed. Or maybe cried. Honestly, it felt like both. I stepped forward and pulled her into my arms, and we sank together to the floor like our legs had forgotten how to work. She tucked her head beneath my chin, and I felt her exhale a breath she must’ve been holding for days.
“Are you okay?” I asked softly, brushing her hair back. “I mean… how do you feel?”
She nodded slowly, still curled into me.
“Terrified,” she whispered. “But also… good. Really good.”
“It’s all going to be okay, June,” I said, kissing her forehead. “We can do this, honey.”
“I hope so.”
“You’re going to be such a great mom, bug,” I said. “I’m serious. This is going to be one lucky kid.”
She laughed against my chest, and then suddenly we were both laughing, full-body, teary, and unfiltered laughter that spilled out of us in waves.
“And it doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl, as long as the baby is happy and healthy,” I said, holding her even tighter.
She looked up at me, eyes shimmering, and gave a soft smile.
“Yeah, healthy,” she mumbled.
June hesitated for a second, just a second, but I noticed it. I didn’t ask, but I wish I had.
The day of the delivery arrived quietly, like the beginning of a storm. Her water broke just after midnight, and everything after that was a blur of hospital lights and frantic glances.
Before they took June back, they told me the epidural hadn’t worked, and they were moving fast. It wasn’t the original plan, and I didn’t like it. I argued, not loudly, but with panic in my voice.
I needed to be with her.
But June stopped me. She squeezed my hand, her face pale but steady.
“Go wait with the others,” she said, her voice thin with pain. “I don’t want you to see me like this. Just be there when it’s over.”
Her grip was firm, and I knew that look. She meant it.
So I kissed her forehead and nodded, then let them take her away.
I waited in the hallway, pacing like the floor might give answers if I wore it down enough. Our families sat beside me — my parents, her parents, my sister-in-law, Mae, but I couldn’t bring myself to sit with them.
I kept checking my phone for no reason. My hands shook every time a nurse walked past. I hated not knowing. I hated that I wasn’t in there with her. I tried not to let the fear creep in.
I heard snippets of conversation behind the double doors. Somewhere, a machine beeped steadily, and beneath that, a quiet rhythm pulsed, as if something sacred was unfolding just out of reach.
Then I heard it. The cry.
A single, sharp wail that cut through the hallway and pierced straight into my chest.
Our baby’s first cry.
I stopped pacing immediately. My knees buckled, and I leaned against the wall, my breath catching like I’d just surfaced from underwater. Relief hit me so hard I nearly laughed.
“The baby is here,” I whispered. “Our baby is really here.”
And for the first time all night, I started to believe that everything was going to be okay.
Then I heard June scream.
“That’s not my baby! That’s not my baby!”
Her voice didn’t sound like her. It was jagged, raw, pulled straight from the center of something broken. The hallway went silent. Mae jumped to her feet, face pale.
“Did she just say — ?”
I didn’t wait. I was already moving.
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