When we arrived, everything moved fast.
Nurses rushed me into the maternity ward while doctors checked my vitals and the baby’s heartbeat. Through the chaos, I kept asking the same thing.
“Is my husband here?”
No one knew yet.
Another contraction hit, stronger than before, and I cried out.
“You’re doing great,” the nurse said gently. “Your baby is ready.”
But something still felt missing.
I needed Daniel.
Almost an hour later, just as the pain peaked, the delivery room door opened.
I turned weakly.
And there he was.
Daniel stood in the doorway in a hospital gown, pale and exhausted, an IV still in his arm. His hair was messy, his eyes red—like he’d been crying.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he walked toward me slowly, like he was afraid I might disappear.
“Sarah…” his voice broke.
Tears streamed down my face.
“You idiot,” I whispered with a shaky laugh. “You almost worked yourself to death.”
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