Father and the Piggybank

BASH

It’s been ten hours since I brought Trinity to Maternity and Children Specialist Hospital, but her cervix only dilates from three centimeters to five centimeters. Trinity is still so stubborn when the contractions kick in, she stops walking and complains of pain instead.

I’m already on my fourth cup of coffee. I’m done reading the book I brought with me. I walked ten times more compared to her just to encourage her to walk more.

She’s wearing a blue hospital gown, and her hair is tied in a messy bun, and her hands are on her hips for support.

I sigh helplessly. “Baby, if you follow what your doctor has told you to do, our baby would be distressed, and you don’t want that to happen, do you?” I ask when she sits back on an empty bench outside her room.

I’m so glad she didn’t suffer too much throughout her pregnancy. I let her stop from her job when she’s in her last trimester. She complains of having edema on her feet, but th