Chapter 153 Chapter 153
I watched the clock more than more than anything, because every minute passing meant I was closer to meeting her and somehow also closer to losing the strange quiet world where she was still only mine. My feet had officially betrayed me swollen enough that I stared at them sometimes, wondering whose body they belonged to, and the family reacted like I was made of glass whenever I tried standing longer than necessary. Alina rushed forward before I even asked, Hannah brought pillows without a word, someone always appeared with water or snacks, and I loved them for it even when it made me feel helpless.
I never snapped at anyone, though, not once, even when irritation crawled under my skin for no reason at all, because none of this was their fault; they moved around me carefully, lovingly, like protecting something sacred, and I saw the worry behind their smiles every time I shifted uncomfortably or pressed my hand against my back trying to ease the pressure.
Some days I woke already annoyed; nothing specific caused it. The air felt wrong, the blankets felt too warm, and the baby kicked directly against my ribs like she was rearranging furniture inside me, and I just lay there staring at the ceiling trying to breathe through it while reminding myself that this meant she was strong, healthy, and alive, and that thought always softened everything just enough.
Zaiel barely let me walk anymore, which honestly frustrated me even while I understood why. He hovered constantly whenever he was home, adjusting pillows, helping me sit, helping me stand, and watching me like I might disappear if he blinked too long, and sometimes I caught the exhaustion in his eyes even though he tried hiding it behind calm smiles.
He returned from work earlier now; Rhyland Global apparently survived without him hovering every hour, but the moment he stepped through the door, his entire focus shifted to me, his hand always finding my stomach first before anything else, his shoulders relaxing the second our daughter moved beneath his palm.
The nursery downstairs had become his quiet obsession. I heard him working late into the evening, assembling furniture again even though it was already perfect, adjusting shelves, and folding tiny clothes with terrifying seriousness, and I watched from the doorway once while leaning against the wall because walking too far tired me out, and something about seeing him surrounded by pink blankets nearly made me cry again.
Actually everything nearly made me cry lately—commercials, music, silence, even happiness hit too hard sometimes. Emotions came in waves so strong I just held onto them until they passed, and the family learned quickly that offering comfort worked better than asking questions.
Dad stayed longer than usual these days; he moved around the house with quiet protectiveness, checking locks, bringing me fruit I barely finished, and sitting beside me while we watched old movies without speaking much, and I felt safe in a way that wrapped around my chest warmly.
The house itself felt alive, with footsteps constantly moving, voices low and gentle, laughter drifting from the kitchen, and someone always cooking something that smelled comforting, and even when I sat alone in the living room, I never actually felt alone.
Still the waiting drove me insane. I counted kicks, counted contractions that turned out to be nothing, and counted days until my due date like numbers held power over time itself, and every small sensation made me wonder if this was finally it.
Was that pain real? Was that pressure different? Was today the day?. Every night I went to bed convinced I might wake up in labor, and every morning I opened my eyes still pregnant and sighed dramatically while everyone pretended not to laugh.
Sleeping had become its own battle, requiring strategy; pillows surrounded me like defensive walls, and Zaiel woke instantly anytime I shifted too much, asking softly if I needed anything even when I only needed comfort.
My back hurt constantly, my hips protested movement, and walking across the room felt like running a marathon, yet somehow my mind refused rest, mixing excitement with impatience until I felt restless despite barely moving.
I sat by the window often, watching the world continue normally outside while mine paused in anticipation, people walking freely, cars passing, and life moving forward while I waited for the biggest change of my life.
Sometimes I talked to her quietly, rubbing slow circles over my stomach, telling her she could come whenever she was ready, telling her how loved she already was, how many people waited just to hold her once.
She always responded with strong kicks, almost playful, and I laughed despite myself because even before being born she already had personality.
The family noticed my moods shifting daily, one moment calm, another deeply emotional, another silently irritated by absolutely nothing, yet no one pushed, no one reacted badly; they simply adjusted around me like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Alina sat beside me one afternoon while massaging my swollen feet, her hands gentle and knowing, and she told stories about Zaiel as a baby, stories filled with warmth and chaos and love, and hearing them made everything feel closer, more real.
I imagined him holding our daughter the same way, imagined her tiny fingers gripping his shirt, imagined the look on his face when she cried for the first time, and my chest tightened with overwhelming anticipation.
Even meals became events centered around making sure I ate enough, with cousins debating nutrition like experts, and someone always asking what I craved even though cravings had calmed now, replaced instead by constant hunger followed immediately by fullness.
Walking upstairs required supervision now, which embarrassed me slightly, but each careful step reminded me how close we were to the end, how much my body had already done.
The baby dropped lower recently, pressure increased, and movements were slower but heavier, and every doctor visit confirmed she was perfect, healthy, strong, and ready whenever she decided. Those words echoed in my mind endlessly, ready whenever she decided, meaning I had zero control, and patience had never been my strongest trait.
Some afternoons irritation crept in quietly, sounds were too loud, conversations too long, and comfort almost overwhelming, yet I swallowed every sharp reaction because they loved me so fiercely, because every person in this house stayed purely for us.
Instead I breathed deeply, smiled when I could, asked for quiet when needed, and reminded myself this moment would pass soon.
One evening I sat alone while the house settled into soft nighttime silence, my hands resting over my stomach as slow movements rolled beneath my skin, and suddenly emotion hit so hard tears slipped down before I realized why—I was going to meet her soon. The thought felt unreal, terrifying, and beautiful all at once, and fear mixed with excitement until my heart raced, because motherhood suddenly stood right in front of me instead of somewhere far away.
Zaiel found me like that, quietly crying, and he knelt immediately without panic, just steady warmth, his forehead resting against mine while his hand covered ours.