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Ellie hunched over the hospital bed; her contractions had gotten much stronger in the last hour. They came fast and hard. We barely made it to the hospital in time. As soon as we got here, they told us Ellie was already dilated to seven centimeters.

When the doctor told her it was too late for the epidural, I thought she might strangle him—but she didn’t.

The past nine months, watching Ellie’s belly grow as she carried our baby inside her, has been an out-of-body experience. She wanted to keep the gender a surprise until the baby arrived, so that’s what we did. Today, we’d find out if we were having a boy or a girl.

Every time Ellie stepped into the shower, I studied the curves of her body, and the way she rubbed her stomach to soothe herself.

I held up her belly any chance I could, trying to give her some relief.

Every night before bed, I massaged her feet too.

She said it felt like heaven when I did that, but I was sure what heaven really felt like was lying beside her with my hand on her belly, feeling our baby kick beneath my palm.

Now, she was gripping the edge of the bed, knuckles white, breathing in short, jagged bursts.

“Breathe, El. Just like we practiced,” I said, pressing my hand to her back. She leaned into my touch like it was the only thing tethering her to Earth.

Another contraction slammed into her, and she cried out in pain. It tore my heart open. I’d take every ounce of her pain away if I could.

She straightened slowly, face slick with sweat, hair clinging to her jaw.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered.

“Yes, you can,” I said firmly, cupping her face. “You are doing this. You’re the strongest person I know.”

She buried her face into my chest as another contraction started to build.

I held her tighter.

The room smelled like antiseptic and adrenaline. Nurses shuffle in and out, checking monitors, calling out numbers I couldn’t focus on. All I saw was Ellie.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” I said, brushing damp hair from her face. “I’m right here.”

She nodded with a clenched jaw, too focused to speak.

And then—in between contractions—her eyes locked onto mine.

This beautiful, remarkably strong woman was about to bring our child into the world with nothing but grit and pure love. I didn’t know how I got lucky enough to be hers, but I’d spend every day trying to deserve her.

The next contraction hit, and she groaned, from low and deep in her chest. I gripped her hand tighter.

“Almost there, baby. Almost there.”

A second later, the doctor knocked on the door, putting on blue medical gloves as he made his way into the delivery room.

“It’s time to see how much progress you’ve made,” he said, as Ellie lay back on the hospital bed.

After checking her, the doctor told Ellie it was finally time to push.

She released a long, exhausted breath as she approached her limit, but if anyone was strong enough for this moment, it was Ellie.

The nurses helped her into position, and she started pushing. She was giving it everything she had, and the muscles along her entire body contracted as she focused all her effort into pushing our baby out in the world.

“This is the last push, Ellie. Give me everything you’ve got,” the doctor instructed.

Ellie screamed through the contraction, through the pain and pressure, and everything else her body felt. As she bore down, her grip tightened on my hand, bones protesting, but I held on, desperate to ease her through the final contraction.

“Keep going, keep pushing, Ellie. Go, go, go,” the doctor said one last time.

She pushed with everything she had, our baby entering the world as she did.

A high-pitched cry filled the room, and I finally released all the air I’d been holding in my lungs .

Relief washed over me, knowing the cry meant the baby was healthy.

Ellie fell back into the hospital bed, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath.

“You did it, El. You did it,” I said, kissing her forehead, over and over again, as the nurse placed the baby on Ellie’s chest.

“Congratulations, you two. It’s a girl.”