Chapter 10: The First Cry

 

Isabella’s POV

 

They say nothing truly prepares you for childbirth.

They were right.

 

It started with a dull ache in my back that wouldn’t go away. I brushed it off as the usual late-pregnancy discomfort until it sharpened—like a wave tearing through my spine and belly, pulling a scream from my throat I didn’t know I was holding in.

 

“Mom!” I called, gripping the doorframe. “Mom, I think it’s time.”

 

She didn’t panic. She’d been waiting, watching me waddle around for days like a ticking time bomb. She just grabbed the hospital bag we’d packed a week ago and gently helped me to the car.

 

The drive was a blur of tight breaths, clutched seats, and whispered prayers.

By the time we got to the hospital, the contractions were coming in full force. Sharp, brutal, unforgiving. I had no idea pain could feel like that—like something ancient and wild had taken over my body.

 

The nurses moved quickly, their hands sure, their voices calm. But I couldn’t focus on anything except the fire in my body and the way my mom kept brushing my hair back, whispering, “You’re okay, baby. You’ve got this.”

 

I screamed. I cursed. I cried.

 

I said I couldn’t do it.

 

I begged for it to stop.

 

But it didn’t stop. It only got worse.

 

Time stopped meaning anything. There was just contraction after contraction, like waves trying to drown me. I thought I might pass out at one point—maybe I did, in pieces—but then came the moment.

 

“Push!”

The doctor’s voice was firm. “One more, Isabella. You’re almost there.”

 

I pushed like the world depended on it. Like something inside me had cracked wide open, and I had no choice but to let everything out. Pain. Fear. Strength.

 

And then

 

The world had never felt so still.

 

The moment I heard his first cry, everything else blurred—time, pain, fear. All of it faded into the background like a forgotten tune. He was here. My baby was finally here.

 

The nurse placed him on my chest, and I stared at the little bundle of skin and heat and sound, blinking away the tears clouding my vision. He was tiny and pink, with a wrinkled forehead and the faintest pout already forming on his lips.

 

I hadn’t known it was possible to love someone this fast.

 

“Hi,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Hi, little one.”

 

He whimpered, barely opening his eyes, and I felt something inside me shift forever.

 

Later, when the chaos had settled and the room was quieter, a nurse returned to fill out paperwork. “Do you have a name for the baby?” she asked kindly.

 

I looked down at him—sleeping now, breathing so softly that I had to lean in just to be sure he was real. I brushed a thumb across his cheek.

 

“Peter,” I said.

 

My mom, who had been sitting beside me silently, gasped quietly. “Peter?” she echoed.

 

I nodded, not taking my eyes off my son. “After Dad.”

 

She didn’t say anything at first. Just reached for my hand and held it tightly. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

 

“He would’ve been so proud of you, Isa,” she said finally, her voice cracking. “So proud.”

 

She smiled, but her grip on my hand trembled. A moment later, she stood quietly and walked into the hospital bathroom, closing the door behind her.

I heard the softest sound—a single breath breaking. Maybe a sob.

She returned a few minutes later, eyes red but face calm, like she’d packed her grief away just for me.

We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t need to.

 

A memory came to me then—one I hadn’t thought about in years. I was seven, hiding under the covers after a nightmare. My dad had come into my room, smelling of rain and warmth, and tucked me in again.

 

“Fear means you’re alive, sweetheart,” he said gently. “But love… love means you’re safe.”

 

That’s what I wanted for my son. Safety. Love. And the strength to face the world, even when it was terrifying.

 

“Hi, Peter,” I whispered again, my voice steadier this time. “You don’t even know how much I needed you.”

 

But even as I held him, a part of me trembled.

What if I failed him? What if I wasn’t enough?

The thought wrapped itself around my chest like a second kind of contraction—tight, breathless.

But then Peter shifted against me, warm and trusting, like he already knew I was his safe place.

And somehow, that was enough—for now.

 

 

Later that evening, the nurses left us alone, and my mom had gone home to rest. It was just the two of us now. The ceiling fan hummed above, and the hospital room was cast in a soft golden glow from the setting sun.

 

Peter stirred in his bassinet, and I picked him up carefully, resting him against my chest. He fit perfectly there, like he'd always belonged.

 

“You're mine,” I murmured. “And I’m yours.”

I reached into the hospital bag and pulled out something I hadn’t planned to use yet—a small flannel square, soft and worn. It used to be my dad’s shirt, one of his favorites.

I’d kept it after he passed, tucked away like a secret I didn’t want to let go of.

I folded it gently and laid it across Peter’s legs.

“This was your grandpa’s,” I whispered. “He’d have loved you so much.”

 

I studied every tiny feature—his miniature fingers, his curled toes, the way his nose scrunched slightly in sleep. He looked nothing like Daniel. And I was grateful for that.

 

I kissed the crown of his head. “I hope you look like me. But with your grandfather’s heart.”

 

He let out a sleepy sigh.

 

“One day, I’ll tell you everything,” I whispered. “About how you came to be. About mistakes and heartbreak, and the day I decided to start over.”

 

I rocked him gently. I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, whether I’d ever hear from Daniel again, or whether I’d be strong enough for all the days ahead.

 

But tonight, I had this moment.

 

I had Peter.

 

And I had love.