My heart gave a strange, cold thud that had nothing to do with the labor. The blue wooden train looked tiny and fragile in his large construction-worker hand, a toy meant for a boy who did not yet exist.
“Aaron, we don’t know yet,” I said, my voice trembling as I tried to pull my legs closer to my chest. “The doctor said it could still be a girl.”
“It isn’t,” he said, his voice flat and absolute as he set the train on the narrow window ledge. “It is a boy. He is going to have my father’s name.”
The door clicked open, and Nurse Rachel entered the room, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the clean floor as she rolled in a heavy metal cart holding the fetal monitor.
Aaron did not turn around to greet her, his gaze locked on the rain running down the glass outside. I reached my hand out across the white sheet, my fingers stretching toward his sleeve, but his arms remained crossed over his chest.
Rachel adjusted the plastic straps around my belly, her ballpoint pen clicking twice in her pocket. The contractions were coming faster now, a sharp pain that tightened across my lower back and made me hold my breath.
Aaron did not look at me. He kept his eyes on the green screen, his fingers tapping against the metal bedside rail. His wedding band made a steady, hollow sound against the steel.
“We are ready, Elena,” Rachel said, setting her hand on my knee. “On the next one, I want you to take a deep breath and hold it.”
The wave hit, and I reached out for Aaron’s hand. He gripped my fingers, but there was no gentleness in it. He squeezed so tightly that my knuckles clicked together, his eyes fixed on the wall behind my head as if he were trying to pull down a building with his bare hands.
“Push,” Rachel said. “Keep going, Elena.”
The pain was a physical wall, but I pushed against it, my eyes shut tight. Aaron’s grip did not loosen. He was breathing hard through his nose, his arm tense.
