CHAPTER 91: HATTIE

CHAPTER 91: HATTIE
By the time I got home from work, every muscle in my body ached. My feet were swollen, my back was sore, and I was convinced that if one more person at the office asked me if I was “still pregnant,” I might actually lose it. The house was quiet when I walked in, the late afternoon light spilling through the kitchen windows. I kicked off my shoes and went straight for the fridge, pouring myself a tall glass of orange juice. The cold sweetness hit instantly, and I leaned against the counter, closing my eyes for a moment. I was so tired. Not just physically, but bone‑deep tired—the kind that came from waiting, from carrying this tiny life for forty long weeks and wondering every day if today would be the day.

The sound of the front door opening pulled me from my thoughts. “Hey, babe,” Preston called, his voice warm and familiar. I turned to see him walking in, a brown paper bag in his hands and that boyish grin on his face. “Please tell me that’s food.” He laughed. “Thai takeout. Your favorite.” “Bless you,” I said, meaning it. Cooking had been off the table for weeks now. I barely had the energy to stand, let alone chop vegetables or stir anything. Preston had taken over dinner duty without complaint, showing up every night with something warm and comforting. He unpacked the containers while I set the table, and soon the kitchen filled with the smell of curry and jasmine rice. We sat down together, the soft hum of the dishwasher in the background, and for a little while, it felt like any other night. “So,” he said between bites, “how was work?” I rolled my eyes. “Same as always. Everyone keeps telling me I shouldn’t be there, but if I sit at home any longer, I’ll go insane.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “You’re stubborn.” “Determined,” I corrected, pointing my fork at him. “There’s a difference.” He laughed, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “Whatever you say, Hattie.” We talked about his day, about the baby, about how surreal it was that any moment now, our lives were going to change forever. I tried to focus on the conversation, but underneath it all, there was a quiet hum of anticipation. I could feel it in my chest, in the way my body seemed to buzz with restless energy. When we finished eating, I pushed my chair back and stood to take my plate to the sink. And that’s when it happened. A sudden warmth. A rush. I froze, staring down in disbelief. “Oh my God.” Preston looked up, confused. “What’s wrong?” “My water just broke,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

For a second, we both just stood there, staring at each other. Then his eyes went wide. “Wait—now? Are you sure?” I gave him a look. “Pretty sure, Preston!” That snapped him into motion. He jumped up, nearly knocking over his chair, and started grabbing things—keys, my hospital bag, his jacket. I stood there for a moment, still in shock, before the first contraction hit. It wasn’t gentle. I doubled over, gripping the edge of the counter, breathing through it like I’d practiced. “Okay,” I gasped. “This is happening.” Preston was at my side in an instant, his hand on my back. “We’ve got this. Come on, let’s go.” The drive to the hospital was a blur of streetlights and shallow breaths. It was only twenty‑five minutes, but it felt like hours. Every few minutes, another contraction would roll through me, stronger than the last. I gripped the door handle, trying to focus on the rhythm of my breathing. Preston kept glancing over, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “You okay?” I shot him a look between breaths. “Do I look okay?” He winced. “Fair point.”

When we finally pulled up to the hospital, he jumped out and ran around to my side, helping me out of the car. The world felt hazy, my body moving on instinct. We checked in at the front desk, and within minutes, a nurse was leading us down the hall to a delivery room. The contractions were coming fast now—sharp, relentless waves that left me breathless. I gripped Preston’s hand so tightly I was sure I’d leave marks. He stayed right beside me, his voice calm even when mine wasn’t. “You’re doing amazing, Hattie. Just breathe. I’m right here.” I wanted to believe him, but in that moment, all I could think was I can’t do this. The pain was overwhelming, my body trembling with effort.

I wished my mom was there, or Maisie—someone who could tell me I was strong enough, that I could get through this. But then I looked at Preston. His eyes were steady, full of love and fear and awe all at once. And I realized I wasn’t alone. He was enough. Two hours. That’s all it took, though it felt like a lifetime. The room was a blur of voices and movement, the steady rhythm of the monitor filling the air. And then, suddenly, there was a cry. A sharp, beautiful, perfect cry. Everything stopped. The doctor smiled, holding up a tiny, wriggling bundle. “Congratulations, you two. You have a healthy baby girl.” I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

Tears blurred my vision as they placed the baby on my chest, warm and impossibly small. Preston’s hand found mine, trembling. “Hattie,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Look at her.” I did. And in that instant, the world shifted. Every ache, every fear, every sleepless night—it all melted away. All that was left was this tiny, perfect person and the overwhelming rush of love that filled every corner of me. I traced a finger along the her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin. “Hi,” I whispered. “I’m your mom.” Preston leaned down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You did it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re incredible.” I looked up at him, tears spilling freely now. “We did it.” The nurse came over, smiling as she checked the baby’s vitals. “Everything looks perfect,” she said.

“Strong heartbeat, healthy weight.” When she left us alone, the room fell quiet except for the soft sounds of our baby breathing. Preston sat beside me on the bed, his arm around my shoulders, and we just stared—at her, at the tiny life between us, at the miracle we’d somehow created. “I can’t believe she is really here,” I whispered. He smiled, brushing a tear from my cheek. “Believe it. You’re a mom now.” I laughed softly, exhausted and overwhelmed. “And you’re a dad.” We sat there for what felt like hours, the world outside fading away. The baby stirred, letting out a tiny sigh, and I felt my heart swell all over again. After everything—the fear, the waiting, the heartbreak of the past—we were finally here. Whole. Safe. Together. And as I looked down at our daughter, I knew that every moment, every struggle, had led us exactly where we were meant to be.