Page 137 of Made for Wilde

My world narrows to the rhythm of contractions, the brief moments of relief between them, and Koda’s steady presence beside me. His voice anchors me. His hands support me as I shift positions and seek any relief from the relentless pain. Sweat soaks the hospital gown, my hair, the sheets beneath me.

The door bursts open during a rare moment of clarity between contractions.

My father stands there. His face is pale and his eyes are wide with a mixture of fear and determination.

“Dad,” I sob. I suddenly feel like a little girl again and want my father to fix everything.

He crosses the room in three long strides and takes my free hand in his weathered grip.

“I’m here, Charlotte-girl. I’m here.”

The endearment breaks something inside me. Tears mix with the sweat on my face as another contraction builds. I clutch both men’s hands, the father who raised me and the father of my child, as pain consumes me once more.

“I need to push,” I gasp when I can speak again. “Right now.”

The doctor appears between my legs and confirms what my body already knows.

“You’re fully dilated. When you feel the next contraction, I want you to push.”

It doesn’t take long. The pressure builds again, but this time, instead of fighting it, I bear down with everything I have. The sensation is indescribable. Pain beyond anything I’ve ever experienced mixed with the most primal urge to push.

“That’s it,” the doctor encourages. “I can see the head. Push again with the next one.”

I lock eyes with my father and see in his face the same strength I’m trying to find in myself.

He nods and squeezes my hand.

“You can do this, Charlotte.”

The next contraction hits like a freight train. I push with a strength I didn’t know I possessed and a guttural sound tears from my throat. Through half-closed eyes, I see Koda and my dad exchange a look over my head. Some silent communicationpasses between them. Twenty years of friendship reasserting itself in this crucial moment.

“One more big push,” the doctor says. “The head is almost out.”

I gather the last of my strength as the final contraction builds. My eyes find Koda’s and draw courage from the love and confidence I see there.

“I love you,” he mouths silently.

With a roar that doesn’t sound like me at all, I push with everything I have left. The pressure peaks, then suddenly releases in a rush that leaves me gasping.

A moment of silence follows and stretches into eternity.

Then a cry. Strong, indignant, perfect.

The most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor announces and lifts a squirming, slippery body into view. “A beautiful, healthy girl.”

They place her on my chest. This tiny person who’s been growing inside me for nine months. She’s covered in blood and vernix. Her face is scrunched in outrage and her tiny fists flail against my skin.

She’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.

“Elaine,” I whisper. My finger traces her tiny cheek. “Elaine Wilde.”

Beside me, Koda makes a sound I’ve never heard from him before. Half sob, half laugh. His hand, so huge next to our daughter’s tiny body, trembles as he touches her for the first time. One finger gently strokes her miniature hand.

When her fingers instinctively curl around his, tears spill freely down his face.

“She’s perfect,” he says. His voice is raw with emotion. “You’re perfect.”