The air in the operating room was cold, smelling of sterile saline and metallic instruments. I sat by Anna’s head, behind the blue paper drape, holding her left hand while Eleanor stood near the back wall, her eyes fixed on the surgical team with an intense, unreadable focus.
“You are doing perfectly, Anna,” I whispered, though my own chest felt tight with a growing sense of dread.
“I just want to hear them,” Anna said, her gaze fixed on the ceiling tiles.
Dr. Patel worked with efficient, quiet movements behind the screen, her instructions to the nurses delivered in low, clinical tones that offered no comfort.
“First infant is out,” Dr. Patel announced at exactly two minutes past three.
A sharp, thin cry filled the room, and a nurse held up a pale, blond baby boy with clear blue eyes, his skin covered in white vernix.
“That is Owen,” Anna whispered, a small smile breaking through her physical exhaustion.
“He looks exactly like my late father,” Eleanor said from the corner, her voice carrying a strange, triumphant ring.
I nodded, watching the nurse clean the boy, his skin a translucent pink under the warming lamp, his tiny limbs twitching.
