I nearly died giving birth to my daughter, and I thought that would be the scariest part of becoming a mother. Eighteen hours of labor, alarms blaring, a doctor shouting, “We need to get this baby out now”—and then, nothing. A weightless black. I clawed my way back to the sound of my husband’s trembling voice: “Stay with me, Julia. I can’t do this without you.”
When I woke, Ryan looked exhausted—his face drawn, eyes red, as if he’d aged ten years overnight. “She’s here,” he whispered. “She’s perfect.” A nurse placed Lily in my arms: seven pounds, two ounces, impossibly whole. I asked if he wanted to hold her. He nodded, cradled her gently, and then something in his expression shifted—joy flickered into something darker. He handed her back too quickly. “She’s beautiful,” he said, but the warmth wasn’t there.
