The pain woke her before dawn.
At first, Ivie thought it was another dream—another restless shift beneath her ribs, another reminder that her body no longer belonged solely to her. But when the sensation tightened again, sharper this time, she froze.
"Femi," she whispered.
He was awake instantly.
"What is it?"
She inhaled shakily. "Something's wrong. Or… right. I don't know."
The second contraction answered for her.
Femi was on his feet in seconds.
The drive to the hospital blurred into flashing lights and clenched breaths. Ivie focused on the rhythm of Femi's voice, steady and grounding, as he kept one hand wrapped around hers like an anchor.
"You're doing well," he murmured. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
At the hospital doors, doctors moved fast. Nurses spoke calmly, efficiently, ushering her into a world of white walls and controlled urgency.
"Twin delivery," someone said.
Femi felt fear claw at his chest—but he didn't let it show.
Instead, he leaned close. "Look at me," he said. "You are not alone."
She nodded, tears slipping free.
Hours passed.
Pain crested and receded like waves crashing against her resolve. Ivie screamed, cried, cursed—then laughed weakly through tears.
"I hate you," she gasped at one point.
Femi smiled shakily. "I'll take it."
When exhaustion threatened to pull her under, he pressed his forehead to hers.
"Stay," he whispered. "Please."
"I'm trying," she sobbed.
And then—
A cry.
Sharp. Alive. Perfect.
"It's a boy," the doctor announced.
Ivie laughed and cried at once.
Before she could recover, another wave came—and another cry followed, just as strong.
"And a girl."
Femi's knees nearly gave out.
The twins were placed briefly against Ivie's chest—warm, fragile, real.
She stared at them in awe.
"We did it," she whispered.
Femi stood beside her, eyes wet, chest aching with something he had never known.
Love without fear.
Family without conditions.
"You're incredible," he said hoarsely. "All of you."
Promises
Later, in the quiet aftermath, Femi sat beside the bed, one hand resting protectively over Ivie's, the other curled around his son's tiny fingers.
His daughter slept peacefully nearby.
He looked at Ivie. "Thank you."
She smiled weakly. "For what?"
"For trusting me again," he said. "For giving me a chance to be more than I was."
She studied his face—no walls left, no masks.
"Stay this man," she said. "Not the one you used to be."
"I will," he promised. "For them. For you."
As the sun rose over Lagos, light spilled into the room.
Two new lives breathed softly.
And in that quiet moment, hate, contracts, and past wounds faded into memory.
What remained was love—earned, fragile, and unbreakable.