Ten long hours passed. The labor was grueling, the kind that leaves every muscle trembling. My husband still hadn’t arrived.
My brother looked at me, then picked up. His voice was steady but heavy with emotion.
He said four words that would carve themselves into our story forever:
“She didn’t make it.”
On the other end of the line, silence — then panic. My husband dropped everything. He drove to the hospital like a man chasing time itself, each red light a curse, each mile a prayer.
By the time he arrived, hours had passed. He waited outside the delivery room, his hands shaking, his mind replaying every call he had ignored, every word he wished he could take back. He thought it was too late.
When the doctor finally emerged, my husband could barely stand.
But instead of bad news, the doctor led him to a quiet recovery room.
