Chapter 94 The Labor

Chapter 94 The Labor


Harper's contractions started during dinner. She was cutting into her chicken when the first real one hit, different from the Braxton Hicks she'd been having for weeks. This one wrapped around her entire abdomen, squeezing like a vice.

"You okay?" Sebastian asked, fork halfway to his mouth.

"Fine. Just a contraction." Harper breathed through it, counting in her head. Thirty seconds. Not too bad. "Probably nothing. I've had false alarms all week."

"You look pale."

"I'm always pale. I'm nine months pregnant and haven't seen the sun in weeks." Harper took another bite of chicken, determined to finish dinner. The books all said early labor could take forever. No point rushing to the hospital.

Another contraction hit fifteen minutes later. Then twelve minutes after that. By the time they finished eating, Harper was breathing through them every eight minutes.

"That's regular," Sebastian said, checking his contraction timer app. "We should call the doctor."

"It's probably early labor. Could be hours before anything real happens." Harper stood to clear the dishes, gripping the table as another wave hit. "Okay. That one hurt."

"Hospital. Now." Sebastian was already grabbing his phone, the hospital bag they'd packed three weeks ago.

"I should shower first. Everyone says to shower while you can."

"You can shower at the hospital."

"But I want to be clean for labor. What if I poop on the table? Everyone says you poop on the table."

Sebastian put his hands on her shoulders. "Harper. You're in labor. We're going to the hospital. You can poop on as many tables as you want. Let's go."

Another contraction, stronger now. Harper gasped, doubling over.

"Okay. Hospital. Good idea."

The drive was surreal. Seattle evening traffic, people going about their normal lives while Harper was bringing a human into the world. She breathed through contractions, gripping the door handle, trying to remember everything from the birthing class.

"You're doing great," Sebastian said, running a red light. "Almost there."

"You just ran a red light."

"You're in labor. Traffic laws are suggestions."

At the hospital, they were taken immediately to triage. A nurse checked Harper's cervix while Sebastian held her hand.

"Four centimeters," the nurse announced. "Active labor. Let's get you to a delivery room."

Four centimeters. Harper had read enough to know that meant hours still. Maybe many hours. First babies took forever, everyone said. She could do this.

The delivery room was stark and clinical. Harper changed into a hospital gown while Sebastian unpacked their bag with nervous energy. Toiletries, phone chargers, snacks, the going home outfit for the baby that suddenly seemed impossibly small.

"This is real," Harper said, sitting on the bed. "This is actually happening."

"This is real." Sebastian kissed her forehead. "How are you feeling?"

Another contraction answered for her. Harper gripped his hand, breathing through it. Stronger now. Coming faster.

"I'm scared," she admitted when it passed.

"Me too."

"What if something goes wrong? What if the baby gets stuck or the cord is wrapped around their neck or I need an emergency C-section?"

"Then the doctors handle it. They do this every day." Sebastian sat beside her, arm around her shoulders. "But nothing's going to go wrong. You're healthy, the baby's healthy. This is just going to be normal, boring labor."

Harper wanted to believe him. Tried to believe him.

The next hour was a blur of contractions and breathing and the nurse checking her dilation. Five centimeters. Six. Things were moving fast for a first baby, the doctor said. Maybe faster than expected.

"Do you want an epidural?" the nurse asked.

Harper had planned to try without one. Had read all about natural birth, about staying mobile, about letting her body do what it was designed to do. But the pain was intensifying, each contraction stealing her breath.

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, please, epidural."

The anesthesiologist arrived twenty minutes later. Harper had to stay perfectly still during a contraction while he inserted the needle into her spine. Sebastian held her hands, talking her through it.

"You're doing amazing. So strong. Almost done."

The epidural took effect slowly, the pain dulling to pressure. Harper could finally breathe normally, think clearly.

"Better?" Sebastian asked.

"So much better. Why did I think I could do this without drugs? Epidurals are a gift from God."

"You're still doing it. The epidural just makes it bearable."

Hours passed. Harper dozed between contractions, exhausted. Sebastian never left her side, holding her hand, wiping her forehead, being exactly what she needed without her having to ask.

At 2 AM, the doctor checked her again. "Ten centimeters. Fully dilated. Ready to push."

Ready? Harper wasn't ready. She'd never be ready.

"I can't do this," she said, panic rising.

"You can. You are." Sebastian moved beside her head, gripping her hand. "Look at me. You're the strongest person I know. You've got this."

"What if I can't push right? What if I'm pushing wrong and the baby gets stuck?"

"Then the doctor helps. But you won't push wrong. Your body knows what to do."

The next contraction built. The doctor positioned Harper's legs, Sebastian supporting one side while a nurse took the other.

"Big push," the doctor instructed. "Now."

Harper pushed with everything she had, bearing down until she saw stars.

"Good! Again!"

She pushed again. And again. Time became meaningless. Just pushing and breathing and pushing more.

"I can see the head," the doctor said. "Baby has lots of hair."

"Really?" Sebastian leaned to look, face transforming with wonder. "Harper, I can see them. Our baby. They're right there."

Harper pushed harder, desperate now to meet this person. To be done with labor. To hold her child.

"One more big push," the doctor coached.

Harper bore down with everything she had left, screaming through it.

And then release. A rush. A baby crying.

"It's a girl," the doctor announced, lifting a tiny, squalling infant. "You have a daughter."

A daughter. They had a daughter.

The baby was placed on Harper's chest, warm and wet and screaming. Perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, a scrunched up face that looked angry at being born.

"Hi," Harper whispered, tears streaming. "Hi, baby. I'm your mom."

The baby stopped crying, eyes opening. Unfocused but searching. Finding Harper's face.

Sebastian was crying too, his hand gentle on the baby's back. "She's perfect. Harper, she's absolutely perfect."

"She's so small."

"Seven pounds, four ounces," the nurse said. "Good size."

Seven pounds that had been living inside Harper for nine months. Seven pounds of perfect human that she and Sebastian had made.

"What's her name?" the nurse asked.

Harper and Sebastian looked at each other. They'd debated names for months, never quite agreeing. But looking at their daughter now, Harper knew.

"Eleanor," she said. "After my aunt. Eleanor Grace Colton."

"Eleanor," Sebastian repeated, testing it. "Ellie for short?"

"Maybe. When she's bigger." Harper couldn't stop staring at her daughter's face. "Right now she's just Eleanor. Our Eleanor."

The nurses took Eleanor to clean her up, weigh her, do all the newborn tests. Harper felt empty without her, already missing the weight of her daughter against her chest.

"You did it," Sebastian said, kissing her. "You were incredible."

"We did it. Together."

"She's ours. That tiny perfect person is ours."

"For the rest of our lives."

The weight of that hit Harper. The rest of their lives. They were responsible for keeping Eleanor alive, helping her grow, teaching her everything. It was terrifying and overwhelming and absolutely right.

The nurse brought Eleanor back, wrapped in a hospital blanket with a tiny pink hat. "Ready to try nursing?"

Harper took her daughter, positioning her awkwardly. Eleanor latched immediately, instinct taking over.

"She's a natural," the nurse said approvingly. "You both are."

Sebastian sat beside them, arm around Harper, finger touching Eleanor's tiny hand. The baby's fingers closed around his, gripping tight.

"She knows you," Harper said.

"She knows us both. We're her people." Sebastian's voice was thick with emotion. "Her mom and dad. Forever."

They sat like that as dawn broke outside the hospital window. Their daughter nursing, making tiny contented sounds. Their family, finally complete.

"I can't believe she's here," Harper whispered.

"I can't believe we made her. That something this perfect came from us."

Eleanor finished nursing, milk drunk and sleepy. Harper burped her carefully, Sebastian holding the burp cloth. Already a team.

"What do we do now?" Harper asked.

"Now we figure out how to keep her alive." Sebastian grinned despite his obvious terror. "How hard can it be?"

"We're going to be disasters."

"The best kind of disasters."

Eleanor yawned, a tiny squeak that made them both laugh.

"Hi, Eleanor," Harper said softly. "Welcome to the world. Your dad and I have no idea what we're doing, but we love you so much. More than we knew was possible."

Sebastian kissed Harper's head, then Eleanor's. "What she said. Times infinity."

The baby opened her eyes again, looking between them. Her parents. Her people. Her whole world for now.

And Harper felt something shift inside her. The fear was still there, the terror of screwing this up. But underneath it was love so fierce it hurt. Protective instinct so strong she'd burn down the world for this tiny person.

Their daughter.

Eleanor.

The person who'd brought them together without even being born yet.

The person who'd changed everything.

And this was only the beginning.