She could feel it again — that wave building deep inside her, rising like fire through her spine.
"Breathe," someone said, a voice somewhere above her, too calm, too distant.
She tried, but the air came in short, panicked gasps. Her fingers gripped the bedrail until her wrists ached, knuckles white and trembling.
The pain came fast, crushing, twisting.
Her body felt like it wasn't her own anymore — muscles pulling, bones stretching, everything screaming at once. She wanted to yell, to push it all away, but all she could do was cry out — half scream, half sob — as sweat rolled down her temples, stinging her eyes.
"Push," the nurse urged
She didn't want to. She wanted to stop, to rest, but her body refused her mercy. Another wave tore through her, and she pushed — not with grace, but with every ounce of strength that hadn't already been stolen from her.
Her hair clung to her face, damp and sticky. Her jaw locked. Her body trembled.
It felt endless.
Her world had shrunk to pain and pressure, to the sound of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears.
And then — a final surge, a tearing cry, her vision blurred — and suddenly, the room shifted.
The sound that came next wasn't hers.
It was smaller, rawer, but it filled the air like light cutting through storm clouds.
Her body collapsed back onto the bed, shaking, empty, yet somehow whole again. Her chest heaved. Her skin burned. Her hands trembled as the tiny, wailing weight was placed against her chest.
She looked down — barely able to see through her tears — and for the first time in what felt like forever, she breathed without pain.
This is when I came into light the cold air hit my skin making me cry
My voice echoing in the four corners of the hospital room
But then Maria's chest rose and fell unevenly, as if the air had grown too heavy to carry .The nurses' voices blurred together, fading into the distance like echoes in water. She tried to speak — to say she was fine, to ask them not to take the baby away — but her lips moved without sound.
The light above her flickered softly, and for a moment everything felt suspended: the crying child, the scent of blood and linen, the hum of machines. Her fingers twitched, searching for the small warmth that had just been laid against her skin.
She could still feel it — that fragile heartbeat against her own.
But the rhythm inside her began to slow, the world dimming at the edges. She looked once more at the tiny face she had brought into the world, eyes glassy but still trying to memorize every detail.
A tear slid from the corner of her eye, tracing down her cheek. There was no fear now, only a quiet surrender — a stillness that felt almost like peace.
The baby's cry grew louder, as if calling her back. But her breaths grew lighter, softer, until they were barely there at all.
And then, in the hush that followed, it was as if the room itself paused — holding its breath — for the woman who had given everything she had, even the last of her own light, to bring another into the world.
Outside Maria's husband paced the hall not knowing what was going on
5 minutes earlier
The took is wife to the ER saying she was having some kind of complications
Just a complication," the nurse said, already pushing him back, already wheeling her away.
Her hand slipped from his fingers.
He tried to follow, but the hallway was a blur of white coats and closing doors.
*******
But the hallway stayed quiet.
And he realized, in that kind of silence that hurts to breathe in, that sometimes the world doesn't shatter with noise — it just stops, softly, while you're still waiting for it to start again.
He stood there, frozen, the baby's faint cry from the other room twisting through his chest like wire. The seconds stretched, heavy and endless. He could still smell her — the faint sweetness of her hair, the salt of her skin — as if she'd just been beside him.
The clock on the wall ticked too loudly.
He stared at the ER doors, willing them to open, willing someone to come out and say she was fine — that it was nothing, that she'd be back soon, smiling that tired, beautiful smile she always did when she pretended not to be in pain.