Page 91 of Omega's Faith

The rest of dinner is easier, lighter and after dinner, on the drive home, Alex is quiet.

"You did good," I tell him.

"I wanted to argue. Especially when Pastor David starting going on after dessert."

"But you didn't."

"Because you love them. They're your family. And now they're Samuel's family too." He reaches over, takes my hand. "I want our son to know them, even if I don't agree with them on everything. I want him to have what I didn't—grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. A whole complicated, messy, lovingfamily."

"You're a good man, Alexander Colborne."

"I'm trying to be." He brings my hand to his lips. "Six months ago, I thought my life was over when we got matched. Now I can't imagine any other life."

I kiss him because I can’t imagine any other life either.

23. Alex

"I hate you!"

Jonah's shout echoes through the private birthing suite we've set up in the east wing of the estate. He's been in labor for six hours now, and we seem to have gone back right back to where we started.

"You're doing amazing, sweetheart," I tell him, letting him crush my hand through another contraction.

"Don't you sweetheart me! This is your fault! Your stupidly large Colborne genes making a giant baby!"

Dr. Morrison hides a smile behind her mask. "He's actually measuring perfectly average, Jonah."

"It doesn't feel average! It feels like I'm trying to pass a watermelon!"

I wipe his forehead with a cool cloth, trying not to laugh. Even in agony, even furious, he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"I love you," I tell him.

"I hate you," he pants. "So much. When this is over, I'm never letting you touch me again."

"You said that an hour ago. And two hours ago. And—"

"Alexander Colborne, if you don't shut up right now, I swear—" Another contraction cuts him off, and he bears down with a sound that tears at my heart.

"I can see the head," Dr. Morrison announces. "We're almost there."

Almost there. We're almost parents. After nine months of preparation, of classes and books and panic attacks, we're minutes away from meeting our son.

"I can't," Jonah gasps. "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can." I kiss his temple, his cheek, anywhere I can reach. "You're the strongest person I know. You can do anything."

"I'm not strong. I'm scared."

"Me too," I admit. "Terrified. But we're doing it anyway and we’ll do it together."

He laughs, which turns into a groan as another contraction hits.

"One more big push," Dr. Morrison instructs. "Come on, Jonah."

Jonah grips my hand, bears down with everything he has, and then—

A cry. Tiny, indignant, perfect.