I breathe out his name, “Logan,” and slowly close my eyes tight, trying to ignore the pains shooting all over my body from the contractions.
Is this just a dream that I’ll wake up from soon, or a flash of memories? Memories of our time together flooded my mind – the good, the bad, the ugly, and the look of contempt on his face when he saw the picture of me and Asher, a lie that changed everything.
I remember the look on his face when he sent me away from the house.
I wish more than anything that this is just an illusion, a trick my mind is playing on me.
I’ve thought about him so much, wondering how things would be different if he hadn’t seen that picture and sent me away.
I wish that when I open my eyes, I’ll realize it was all just a product of my mind, a cruel trick played on my heart.
I feel a contraction coming on, and I grit my teeth, trying to breathe through the pain.
My heart pounds in my chest, pain shooting through my body like wildfire.
I clench my fists, willing myself to calm down. I wish that when I open my eyes again, he’ll vanish into thin air. With that thought, I slowly lifted my eyelids.
But there he stands, Logan, still looming over me with an air of superiority, his arrogance radiating like a palpable force.
He seems to own the space like he’s bought the rights to my delivery and everything surrounding it.
The sight of him makes my blood boil, and I feel an overwhelming urge to leap out of my wheelchair and lunge at him, to wipe that smug look off his face.
His eyes lock onto mine, with a smile playing on his lips. I can feel my anger rising, my face growing hot with indignation.
How dare he look at me like that? How dare he show up here, now, after everything that’s happened?
I try to speak, but my voice catches in my throat. I clear it, trying again. “What are you doing here, Logan?” I manage to spit out, my words laced with venom.
He shrugs, his smile growing wider. “I heard you were having a baby. I had to come to see for myself.”
I feel a surge of rage at his nonchalance. “You have no right to be here,” I hiss, my hands tightening into fists.
Logan takes a step closer, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, I think I do,” he says, his voice low and husky. “I think I have every right to be here, to see my child born.”
I’m torn, unsure how to react. Part of me wants to leap out of this wheelchair and wrap my arms around him, holding him tight because, truth be told, I’ve missed him so desperately.
Another part of me wants to break down and sob uncontrollably, releasing all the heartache and pain he’s caused me.
And then there’s the sarcastic part of me that wants to laugh out loud at the cruel joke of his timing.
But I do none of those things. Instead, I raise my head high, despite the labor pain wracking my body.
My veins bulge with anger as I shout at the top of my lungs, “Get out!” My voice echoes through the room, a fierce command that leaves no room for argument.
Logan’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t move. He just stands there, his gaze locked on mine as if trying to read my thoughts.
I can feel my heart racing, my anger and hurt boiling over.
“Get out!” I shout again, my voice is hoarse from screaming. “Leave me alone, Logan. You’ve done enough damage.”
The nurses, sensing my distress, step in to defuse the tense situation.
I can tell they’re intimidated by Logan’s dominant presence, which can make even the bravest person quiver with just one glance.
I used to feel that fear too, but over time, I’ve grown accustomed to his authoritative demeanor.
“Sir, please, you need to leave,” one of the nurses requests, her voice trembling a bit.
“She doesn’t need any additional stress right now, especially in her condition.”
Logan’s gaze shifts to the nurse, his expression inscrutable. But he remains still, unmoving, and unresponsive.
I scream louder, “Get out!” I can’t bear the pain again.
But Logan moves closer, undeterred by my outburst.
“You think I’d let another man claim my child?” he says, his voice low and menacing.
“You lie, Nadine. I’ll leave now, but trust me, I’ll be back.” He turns to exit, but not before Ethan bursts into the room.
Ethan rushes to my side, kneeling to my level, wrapping his hands around my neck, and touching his forehead to mine.
“I’m here now, and that’s all that matters,” he says hastily, without acknowledging Logan’s presence.
Logan’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenched in anger, but Ethan ignores him, focusing solely on me.
My emotions are in turmoil as I shake my head, willing Logan to vanish from the room and never return.
Ethan notices my tension and slowly pulls away, following my gaze to Logan.
His brow furrows in recognition, and I can tell he’s piecing together the situation.
His eyes narrow, his jaw clenches, and his body tenses, ready to defend me against the man who’s hurt me so deeply.
Ethan’s eyes didn’t leave Logan’s, his gaze piercing and intense. I can sense the unspoken challenge, the warning to stay back. Logan, however, seems unfazed, his expression unyielding.
Ethan held my hands, his fingers intertwined with mine in a gentle grasp.
Logan’s gaze drops to our entwined hands, his expression darkening. For a moment, I worry he’ll say something, do something, to escalate the situation.
The midwife walks in, her eyes scanning the room and assessing the tense situation. She’s seen this before – two men vying for dominance as the father of the child.
“Gentlemen, I advise you both to leave,” she says firmly, guiding them towards the door.
Ethan and Logan continue to stare each other down, each waiting for the other to back down. But the midwife’s calm authority and persistence eventually prevail, and she successfully escorts them out of the room.
With the door closed behind them, the tension slowly dies off, and the midwife turns her attention to me.
“Let’s focus on bringing your baby into the world,” she says with a warm smile.
I sigh in relief as the midwife begins her work, connecting tubes and preparing me for delivery.
I focus on her instructions, pushing whenever I feel contractions. The midwives offer words of encouragement, praising me for doing well.
“The baby’s head is out,” one of them says, which seems to give me hope.
“When you feel another contraction, push again,” she instructs. I nod, steeling myself for the pain. I tighten my mouth and prepare to push once more.
As I feel the next contraction, I summon all my strength and push. And then, I hear it – the cry of my baby. My heart swells with joy.
The midwife hands me my baby, and I cradle him in my arms, gazing at his tiny face.
His eyes are closed, but his small chest rises and falls with each breath. I feel an overwhelming rush of love and connection to this tiny human being.
“He’s perfect,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face.
The midwife smiles, nodding in agreement. “Yes, he is. Congratulations, you have a beautiful baby boy.”
But the truth is, nothing can truly prepare me for the pain of childbirth. It’s a sensation that’s both overwhelming and all-consuming. Yet, at this moment, as I gaze at my newborn baby in my arms, all the agony of labor is forgotten, replaced by overwhelming joy.