Chapter 8: The Call From the ER
The phone buzzed against her thigh at 3:17 in the morning.
Layla had been sitting in the emergency room for forty-three minutes, counting the ceiling tiles. There were eighty-six of them. She'd counted them twice. The vinyl seat beneath her was sticky with someone else's sweat, and the fluorescent lights hummed with a frequency that made her teeth ache.
She'd driven herself here.
That was the part she kept coming back to. She'd been curled on her bathroom floor, her cheek pressed against the cold tile, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The pain had started around midnight—a cramping, twisting thing low in her belly. She'd taken ibuprofen. Then she'd taken more ibuprofen. Then she'd thrown up the ibuprofen.
And then she'd grabbed her keys.
The drive had been a blur of red lights and headlights and the way her knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel. She'd hunched over at every stoplight, her phone balanced on her knee, her thumb hovering over Omar's contact.
She hadn't called him.
Not yet.
He was at work. He worked nights at the warehouse now—a job he'd taken after everything with her parents, after he'd dropped out of his architecture program to pay for their apartment. She wasn't going to drag him away from that. Not for cramps. Not for something that was probably nothing.
Except the pain wasn't nothing.
The pain was a fist closing around her insides. The pain was a knife. The pain was every bad thing she'd ever felt, concentrated into a single point below her belly button.
The triage nurse had taken one look at her and moved her to the front of the line.
Smart woman.
Now Layla sat in the plastic chair, her legs pulled up to her chest, her forehead pressed against her knees. The waiting room was a sea of pale faces and exhausted eyes. A man in the corner was bleeding through a towel wrapped around his hand. A woman near the door was crying softly into her phone. Everyone had a story. Everyone had a reason for being here at three in the morning.
Layla's phone buzzed again.
She looked at the screen.
Omar.
She'd texted him earlier. A quick, casual thing. Hey. At the ER. Probably nothing. Don't worry.
He'd responded in seconds. What do you mean you're at the ER?
Just some cramps. They're checking me out.
Which hospital?
Mercy General.
I'm coming.
No. Stay at work. It's fine.
Which hospital, Layla.
She'd sent him the address. He'd gone quiet after that. That was an hour ago.
Now his name was lighting up her screen.
She answered on the second ring.
"Hey."
"Where are you?" His voice was tight. Controlled. The kind of controlled that meant he was terrified."Emergency room. They put me in triage. I'm waiting for a doctor."
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You don't go to the ER for fine."
"I go to the ER for lots of things."
"You've never gone to the ER."
"That's not true. I went that one time when I sprained my ankle."
"That was urgent care. And I drove you."
She smiled despite herself. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything."
She closed her eyes. The pain rolled through her, slow and deep, and she bit down on her lip to keep from making a sound.
"Layla?"
"I'm here."
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying."
"You're doing the thing where you pretend everything's okay so I don't worry."
"I'm not doing that."
"You are. You always do that."
"Omar."
"What?"
She pressed her forehead harder against her knees. "I just wanted to hear your voice."
He went quiet.
"Okay," he said finally. "Okay. I'm here."
"You're at work."
"I'm leaving."
"Omar, don't—"
"I'm leaving, Layla. I'm walking to my car right now."
"You're going to get fired."
"Then I'll get fired."
"Omar."
"Which hospital?"
"Mercy General."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"That's a forty-minute drive."
"Then I'll be there in twenty."
He hung up.
She stared at the phone in her hand. The screen dimmed. Went dark.
She closed her eyes and waited.
The doctor came at 3:45.
She was young—younger than Layla expected. Maybe thirty. Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Tired eyes that had seen too much. She held a clipboard in one hand and a stethoscope in the other.
"Layla Haddad?"
"Yeah."
"I'm Dr. Morris. I hear you're having some abdominal pain."
"Some."
"How bad is it? On a scale of one to ten."
"Seven."
"Seven's significant. Let's get you into a room."
They moved her to a curtained bay at the back of the ER. The bed was narrow. The sheets were thin. The monitor beside her beeped in time with her heart.Dr. Morris asked questions. When did the pain start? Where exactly was it? Had she eaten anything unusual? Was there any chance she could be pregnant?
Layla answered. Midnight. Lower belly. No. And—
She paused.No.
She wasn't pregnant. She couldn't be pregnant. She'd been on birth control for years—ever since the surgery. Dr. Chen had prescribed it to help with the endometriosis. She took the pill every night at nine o'clock. She'd never missed a dose.Not once.
"No," she said. "I'm on the pill."
"Okay. We'll still run a urine test to be sure."
"Whatever you need."
They took blood. They took urine. They hooked her up to an IV and gave her something for the pain. The something made her float. Made the edges of the room go soft.
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, Omar was there.
He was standing at the foot of the bed, his hair disheveled, his jacket still on. His chest was heaving. Like he'd run the whole way.
"You're here," she said.
"I told you I would be."
"You broke several traffic laws."
"I don't care."
"You're going to get a ticket."
"I don't care."
He crossed to her. Took her hand. His fingers were cold. His eyes were red.
"You look like shit," she said.
"You look worse."
"I'm in a hospital gown."
"I know. It's a look."
She laughed. It hurt. She didn't care.
"What did they say?" he asked.
"Nothing yet. They ran some tests."
"What kind of tests?"
"Blood. Urine. The usual."
"Did they say what it might be?"
"No."
"Did they say—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Did they say anything about the baby?"
She stared at him."What?"
"The baby. Did they say anything about—"
"Omar." She pulled her hand back. "What are you talking about?"
He looked at her. Confused. Like she'd said something in a language he didn't understand.
"The baby," he repeated. "The one we were going to—you said we could—"
"Omar, that was years ago. That was—we were eighteen. We weren't—"
"You said we could have a baby."
"I said someday. That was—we were kids. We didn't know what we were saying."
"You said—"
"I was in a hospital bed, Omar. I was high on morphine. I didn't know what I was saying."
He went very still.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
The curtain pulled back.
Dr. Morris walked in, clipboard in hand. Her expression was unreadable—a careful, professional blankness that Layla had learned to recognize during her years working in trauma care. Haddad," she said. "We have your results."
Layla's heart skipped. She didn't know why. Some instinct. Some animal thing."Okay."
"Your blood work came back normal. Your white count is slightly elevated, but nothing alarming. No signs of infection."
Layla nodded.
"Your urine test, however—"
Dr.Morris paused. Looked at the clipboard. Looked at Layla.
"Your urine test came back positive for HCG."
Layla blinked.
"What?"
"HCG. Human chorionic gonadotropin. It's the hormone that indicates pregnancy."
"I know what HCG is. I'm a nurse."
"Right. Of course.I'm sorry."
"I'm not pregnant."
Dr. Morris looked at her. A long, steady look.
"Your levels suggest otherwise. Your HCG is very high. Which means—"
"I'm not pregnant. I'm on the pill. I've been on the pill for years."
"The pill isn't one hundred percent effective. You know that."
"I've never missed a dose."
"I believe you. But no medication is perfect."
Layla shook her head. "No. No, this is—there's a mistake. You mixed up my samples. This happens. You hear about this happening."
Dr. Morris didn't argue. Just stood there with her clipboard, her expression carefully neutral.
Layla's phone buzzed. She ignored it.
"The pain," Dr.Morris said. "The cramping. Have you had any other symptoms? Nausea? Fatigue? Unusual bleeding?"
"Yes. No. I don't—" Layla pressed her hands against her belly. "I've had some nausea."
"How long?"
"A few weeks. Maybe a month. I thought it was stress."
"Any weight gain?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I don't pay attention."
"Any movement? Fluttering? Kicking?"
Layla stared at her.
Movement.
She thought about the past few weeks. The strange sensations. The way her stomach had felt different. The way she'd caught herself rubbing her belly in the shower, not knowing why. She'd thought it was gas. She'd thought it was nerves. She'd thought—
"No," she said. "No, I haven't felt any—"
She stopped.
Because she had.
She had felt something.
Three nights ago. She'd been lying in bed, and something had moved. A flutter. A whisper. A shifting.
She'd told herself it was gas.
It wasn't gas.
"Oh my God," she whispered.Dr. Morris moved to the ultrasound machine in the corner. Wheeled it toward the bed. Layla watched her, frozen.
"We need to do an ultrasound," Dr.Morris said. "With HCG levels this high, we need to see what we're dealing with."
"What we're dealing with?"
"Just to confirm the pregnancy. And to check the status of the fetus."
The word hit her like a physical blow.Fetus.
There was a fetus.
Inside her.
"Layla?" Omar's voice. Distant. Underwater.
She looked at him. His face was pale. His mouth was open. His hand was still wrapped around hers, squeezing.
"Okay," Layla said. Her voice didn't sound like her own. "Okay. Do the ultrasound."Dr. Morris pulled up the gel. The wand. The screen.
"This will be cold," she said.
Layla lifted her gown. Exposed her belly.
The belly she'd thought was bloated.
The belly she'd thought was nothing.
The wand pressed down.
The screen flickered.
And there, in black and white and gray, was a baby.
A whole baby.
Complete. Formed. With a head and arms and legs and a spine and a heart that was beating, beating, beating in a rhythm that was impossibly fast.
Layla couldn't breathe.
The room spun.
"That's a baby," she said.
"That's a baby," Dr. Morris agreed.
"Inside me."
"Yes."
"That's a whole—that's a—" She couldn't finish. Couldn't form the words.
"Based on measurements, you're approximately thirty-seven weeks. Maybe thirty-eight. The baby's head is engaged. You're in early labor."
Layla's vision tunneled.
"I'm in labor."
"You're in early labor. The cramping you're feeling is contractions. The contractions are still irregular, but they're coming. You're dilated to three centimeters."
"Three centimeters."
"Yes."
"I'm in labor."
"Yes."
"I'm thirty-eight weeks pregnant."Yes."
"I'm having a baby."
"Tonight."
Layla looked at the screen. At the baby. At the impossible, beating heart.
"Tonight."
Omar made a sound. A choked, strangled sound. She turned to look at him.
He was crying.
He was crying and smiling and his hand was over his mouth and he was crying.
"You're going to have a baby," he said. "We're going to have a baby."
"A baby," she repeated.
"Our baby."
"Our—"
She stopped.
Our.
The word hit her like a second blow. Omar. This was Omar's baby. She'd been with him for years. She'd never been with anyone else. Not since the night he'd carried her out of her parents' house. Not since she'd left everything behind.
This was his.
This was theirs.
But she hadn't known. She hadn't felt it. She hadn't—
"I didn't know," she said. "I didn't know. How could I not know? I'm a nurse. I'm a—I should have—"
"Cryptic pregnancies," Dr. Morris said. "They're rare, but they happen. Tracking is minimal. Weight gain is easily attributed to other factors. Movement can be mistaken for gas or muscle spasms. If there's no morning sickness, or if it's mild, there's often no reason to suspect anything is wrong."
"Thirty-eight weeks."
"Yes."
"I've been walking around with a baby inside me for thirty-eight weeks."
"Yes."
"And I didn't—"
"You didn't know."
Layla looked at the screen again.The baby. Its fingers. Its toes. Its tiny, fluttering heartbeat.
"I didn't know," she whispered.
"Do you want to hear the heartbeat?"
Layla nodded. She couldn't speak.Dr. Morris turned a dial.
The room filled with sound. A rapid, rhythmic thumping. Like a hummingbird. Like a drum. Like the most beautiful thing Layla had ever heard.
"Oh my God," she said.
"That's your baby."
"That's—" She choked. "That's my baby."
"Would you like to know the sex?"
Layla looked at Omar.
He was still crying. His eyes were fixed on the screen. His hand was squeezing hers so hard it hurt.
"Should we—" She couldn't finish.
"Yes," he said. "Yes."
Dr. Morris moved the wand. Pressed a button. The image shifted.
"It's a girl," she said. "You're having a girl."
A girl.
A daughter.
Layla's daughter.
A whole person. A whole life. A whole human being who had been growing inside her for months, invisible, silent, waiting.
"She's a girl," Layla said.
"She's a girl."
"We're having a girl."
"We're having a girl."
Omar leaned down. Pressed his forehead against hers. His breath was warm. His tears were wet.
"We're having a girl," he said again.
"I know."
"You're going to be a mom."I know."
"You're going to be—" He stopped. Laughed. Sobbed. "You're going to be the best mom."
She closed her eyes. Let herself feel it. The terror. The joy. The impossible, overwhelming everything.
"I'm going to be a mom," she whispered.
"Yes."
"I'm going to have a daughter."
"Yes."
"Tonight."
"Yes."
She opened her eyes. Looked at the screen one more time. The baby. Her baby. Her daughter.
And then she started laughing.
It was a strange sound. Hoarse and broken and absolutely delighted.
"I'm in labor," she said. "I'm in labor and I didn't even know I was pregnant. I came here for cramps. I came here because I thought I was dying. And instead—"
"You're having a baby."
"I'm having a baby."
Omar was laughing too now. Crying and laughing and holding her hand like he'd never let go.
"You're having our baby," he said.
"She's ours."
"She's ours."
"All of ours. All three of us." She stopped. Looked around the room. "Wait. I need to—I need to call—"
She grabbed her phone off the bedside table. Her hands were shaking. Her fingers wouldn't work.
"Who are you calling?" Omar asked.
"I don't know. My boss. Marisol. She needs to know I won't be in tomorrow. And—" She stopped. Stared at the phone. "I don't know who else to call."
"Your parents."
She froze.
"I don't have parents."
"You have—"
"I don't have parents, Omar. They made that clear."
He went quiet.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean—I just—"
"I know."
"I don't know who to call."
"You don't have to call anyone."
"I have to call someone. You're supposed to call people. You're supposed to—"
She stopped again. Looked at the screen. At her daughter. At the impossible miracle of it all.
"I'm calling no one," she said. "I'm only calling you."
"You already called me."
"I know. But I want to call you again. I want to hear your voice. I want to—"
She dialed. His phone rang in his pocket. He looked at her.
"Answer it," she said.
He answered it.
"Hello?"
"Hey," she said. "I'm at the hospital."
"I know."
"It's not nothing."I know."
"I'm having a baby."
"I know."
"I'm having your baby."
"I know."
"Come now. Right now. Bring nothing. The baby is coming tonight."
"I'm already here."
"I know."
She hung up. He hung up.
Dr. Morris was still standing by the ultrasound machine. She was smiling. A real smile this time. The kind that had nothing to do with professionalism."Congratulations," she said. "I'll give you two a minute. The nurse will be in shortly to check your progress."
She left.
The curtain closed behind her.
Layla looked at Omar. He looked at her.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
"We're having a girl."
"We're having a girl."
"What are we going to name her?"
He thought about it. A long moment. Then—
"Frankie."
She blinked."What?"
"Frankie. After your grandmother. The one who—"
"The one who died."
"The one who left you the money. The one who taught you how to make kibbeh. The one who—"
She wasn't crying. She was beyond crying. She was somewhere else entirely.
"Frankie," she said.
"It's a girl's name. Kind of. Or it can be."
"Frankie Haddad-Khalil."
"Frankie Haddad-Khalil."
She looked at the screen one last time. At her daughter. At the future.
"I like it," she said.
"Me too."
And then the pain came again. Harder this time. Deeper.
She grabbed Omar's hand.
"There's our daughter," she said. "She wants out."
"Then let's get her out."
"Omar."
"What?"
"I'm scared."
He pulled her close. Held her.
"I know," he said. "I'm scared too."
"What if I'm not good at this?"
"You'll be great at this."
"What if—"
"Layla." He pulled back. Met her eyes. "You survived your parents. You survived the streets. You survived the surgery. You survived everything they threw at you. You're going to survive this."
"That's not the same."
"It is exactly the same. You're stronger than you know. And you're not alone."
She looked at him.
"You're not alone," he repeated.
"I know."
"You're never alone."
"I know."
He kissed her. Soft. Tender. The way he always kissed her when he was afraid she might break.
"Let's have a baby," he said.
She laughed. It hurt. She didn't care.
"Yeah," she said. "Let's have a baby."
The monitor beeped. The IV dripped. The fluorescent lights buzzed above them. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. Somewhere in the world, the sun was rising.
Layla closed her eyes.
She thought about the first time she'd seen Omar. At the family gathering. The way he'd looked at her. The way he'd smiled. The way she'd known, even then, that he was different.
She thought about the night she'd left her parents' house. The blood. The broken ribs. The way he'd carried her to his car without a single question.
She thought about the surgery. The clean surgical pain. The way he'd held her hand like she was the most important thing in the world.
She thought about the boutique. The heated blanket. The way he'd cried.
She thought about the ballroom. The bathroom floor. The way he'd pressed his hand against her belly and said ours.
And now this.
A bedroom. A baby. A daughter.
Tonight.
She opened her eyes. Looked at Omar. He was still holding her hand. Still crying. Still smiling.
"I'm ready," she said.
"For what?"
"For everything."
He squeezed her hand.
"Me too."
The curtain opened. The nurse walked in. It was time.
And Layla Haddad—eighteen years old, bold, scared, brave, alive—prepared to meet her daughter.
The curtain hadn't finished swishing shut before the nurse was back, a different one this time, broad-shouldered and businesslike with a name tag that read Marisol.
She took one look at Layla's face, then at Omar's, and her expression shifted from clinical to something softer. "Okay, Mama. Let's see where we're at."
Layla wanted to laugh at that. Mama. The word didn't fit. It was a coat she hadn't tried on, a shoe that belonged to someone else. But it was hers now, apparently. It had been hers for thirty-eight weeks without her permission.
Marisol snapped on gloves and adjusted the monitor. The paper crinkled beneath Layla's thighs. The gel was cold again, and she flinched, and Omar's hand tightened around hers.
"You're at a four," Marisol said. "Maybe a five. Things are moving faster than we thought."
"How fast?"
"Hard to say. First babies usually take their time. But you're not exactly a textbook case."Layla snorted. "Story of my life."
Omar laughed. It came out wet and broken, more sob than sound, but it was a laugh.
Marisol didn't blink. She'd seen worse. She'd seen everything. "I'm going to get Dr. Morris. We'll want to move you to a delivery room soon. This one's for emergencies."
"And this isn't an emergency?"
Marisol paused at the curtain. "Honey, this is a miracle. There's a difference."
She left.
The silence that followed was thick, syrupy, the kind that settles into your bones. Layla stared at the ceiling. Eighty-six tiles. She'd counted them twice. She wondered if she'd ever see this room again.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
Omar turned to her. His eyes were still red, still wet, but there was something steady underneath. Something that had always been there, even when she hadn't deserved it.
"What?"
"The pill."She swallowed. "I wasn't on it for the reason I told you."
He waited.
"When we were nineteen, after the second one, Dr. Chen said—she said my endometriosis was getting worse. She said the scar tissue was building up. She said if we kept trying, I might—" She stopped. Breathed. "She said I might not survive the next one."
Omar's face didn't change. But his hand did. It went very still.
"So I went back on the pill. Not because I didn't want—not because I'd given up on us. Because I was scared. Because I couldn't—" Her voice cracked. "I couldn't lose another one. And I couldn't make you watch me lose another one."
"Layla."
"Three miscarriages, Omar. Three. In four years. And every time, I watched you break. I watched you pick up the pieces. I watched you pretend you were okay so I wouldn't have to feel guilty about not being okay." She pulled her hand free. Pressed it against her belly. "I couldn't do that to you again. So I made a choice. I made it for both of us. And I didn't tell you because I knew you'd fight me on it."
He was quiet for a long time.
The monitor beeped. The IV dripped. Somewhere in the hallway, a gurney rattled past.
"You think I would have fought you," he said finally.
"I know you would have."
"You're right." He exhaled. "I would have."
"See?"
"I would have fought you because I didn't want to give up." He looked at her. Really looked. "But I would have listened. If you'd told me why. If you'd told me you were scared. I would have listened, Layla."
She felt the tears coming. She hated it. Hated the way her body betrayed her, the way her throat closed up, the way her eyes burned.
"I know," she whispered. "I know you would have."
"So why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was ashamed."
"Of what?"
"Of being broken." The words came out raw. Unpolished. True. "Of being the reason we couldn't—of being the one who kept losing—"
"You weren't losing anything alone." His voice was sharp now. Not angry. Just—fierce. "We were losing them together. We were trying together. We were—"
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I couldn't look at you." She met his eyes. "Every time it happened, I couldn't look at you. Because all I saw was disappointment. And I couldn't—I couldn't live with that. Not from you. Not from the only person who ever—"
She stopped.
The only person who ever loved me.
She didn't say it. She didn't have to.
Omar leaned down. Pressed his forehead to hers. His breath was warm, shaking, alive.
"I was never disappointed in you," he said. "I was disappointed for you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." He pulled back. Met her eyes. "There's a huge difference."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to so badly. But the years had carved grooves into her, deep ones, ones that wouldn't smooth out overnight.
"I didn't know I was pregnant," she said. "I swear to God, Omar. I didn't know."
"I believe you."
"I was on the pill. Every night at nine. I never missed a dose."
"I know."
"So how—"
"The pill isn't perfect." He almost smiled. "You're a nurse. You know that."
"I know that. But the odds—"
"The odds were against us for four years. Maybe they finally got tired of losing."
She stared at him.
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"Probably."
"You're an idiot."
"I know."
"I love you."
"I know."
She laughed. It hurt. Everything hurt. But she laughed anyway.
The contraction hit before she could stop it.
It started low, at the base of her spine, and rolled upward like a wave. Her whole body clenched. Her fingers dug into Omar's hand. She bit down on her lip until she tasted copper.
"Breathe," Omar said. "Just breathe."
"I am breathing."
"You're holding your breath."
"I'm not—" She gasped. "I'm not holding my—"
"Breathe, Layla."
She breathed. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. The wave crested, held, receded. She collapsed back against the pillows, sweating.
"That was a big one," she said.
"Yeah."
"That was—" She looked at him. "That was a really big one."
"I know."
"I think she's coming."
"We know she's coming."
"No, I mean—" She grabbed his wrist. "I think she's coming now."
He looked at the monitor. At the jagged peaks and valleys of the contraction pattern. His face went pale.
"Okay," he said."Okay."
Marisol appeared in the doorway. "We're moving you."
"Now?"
"Now."
The bed lurched forward. Omar walked beside it, one hand on the rail, the other still wrapped around hers. The hallway was a blur of lights and faces and the distant, rhythmic beeping of machines.
The delivery room was bigger. Brighter. There were more people than Layla expected—nurses, doctors, a woman in scrubs who introduced herself as the NICU team. Just in case.
Just in case.
The words echoed in Layla's skull.
"What do you mean, just in case?" she asked.
"It's standard," the woman said. "For any delivery. We're here to make sure your baby is healthy."
"My baby is healthy. She's been healthy for thirty-eight weeks. She's—" Layla stopped. Looked at Omar. "She's healthy, right?"
"She's healthy," Dr. Morris said. She'd appeared at the foot of the bed, gloved and gowned. "But she's also a surprise. We don't have any prenatal records. We don't know what we're walking into."
"You're walking into a delivery."
"We're walking into the unknown."Dr. Morris's voice was gentle but firm. "That's not a bad thing. It just means we're prepared for everything."
Layla wanted to argue. Wanted to scream. Wanted to demand that they stop treating her daughter like a problem to be solved.
But she was too tired. Too scared. Too everything.
"Okay," she said."Okay."
Omar squeezed her hand.
"I'm here," he said. "I'm right here."
"I know."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
"I love you."
"I know."
Dr. Morris adjusted the stirrups. The nurses bustled around the bed. Someone turned down the lights. Someone else turned up the monitor.
"On the next contraction," Dr. Morris said, "I want you to push."
Layla nodded. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was pounding. Her whole body was shaking.
"I can't do this," she whispered.
Omar leaned down. His mouth was at her ear.
"You survived your parents," he said. "You survived the streets. You survived the surgery. You survived four years of trying and three miscarriages and every single time you thought you couldn't go on—you went on. You went on, Layla. You're still going."
"I'm not strong enough."
"You're the strongest person I've ever met."
"I'm not."
"You are." He pulled back.Met her eyes. "And even if you weren't—even if you were the weakest person in the world—I'd still be right here. Holding your hand. Every second. Every push. Every breath."
She looked at him.
He was crying again. But he was smiling too. That same smile he'd worn at the boutique, when he'd cried and held her hand and pretended it was the wind.
"You're a mess," she said.
"I know."
"You're my mess."
"I know."
The contraction came.
"Push," Dr.Morris said.
And Layla pushed.