I turned my face slightly and whispered, “Please put your mask back on,” because I did not have the strength to face his full expression while lying exposed and vulnerable.
He pulled the mask up again, yet his eyes never left mine as the nurse asked, “Doctor, should we proceed,” and he answered after a brief pause, “Yes, follow the procedure.”
Another contraction tore through me, and as I cried out I thought to myself that perhaps I deserved this confusion because I had hidden the truth from him. Then his voice softened in a way I had not heard for years, and he said, “Madeline, listen to me and do not tense up, I am here.”
Those words pierced something deep inside me, because I could not remember the last time he had chosen to stand beside me without hesitation.
“I did not want you to know,” I sobbed, and he did not respond immediately because the urgency of the moment demanded focus.
“One more push,” he urged firmly, “You cannot pass out now,” and I gathered every bit of strength I had left.
A cry filled the room, loud and clear, and a nurse announced, “It is a boy and he weighs seven pounds.”
Tears streamed down my face as Zachary cut the umbilical cord with hands that were visibly shaking, and although he did not cry, his expression looked as though something inside him had cracked open.
Two days later I lay in the postpartum ward, watching my tiny son sleep in a clear plastic crib beside my bed while the hospital lights cast a soft glow over his fragile features. That night the door opened quietly, and Zachary stepped in wearing jeans and a simple gray shirt instead of his doctor’s coat.
