Chapter 199

LILY POV

I was lying on the operating table, my body motionless under the bright, merciless lights that seemed to pierce every inch of my soul. My heart was beating so hard I could feel every pulse echoing in my throat, my wrists, and my temples — a desperate drum that seemed to say I wasn’t ready, that none of this was right.

Everyone was waiting. The team was masked, their eyes attentive above the masks, gloved hands holding instruments that gleamed like blades of ice. Samantha stood beside me, holding my hand tightly, her fingers cold, her eyes watery with a mixture of love and terror I had never seen in her before. My father had been forced to wait in the waiting room, but I could still feel his presence — like a distant, fragile anchor that was still there.

The obstetrician was taking too long. Every second felt like an eternity. I trembled under the thin blue sheet, my body freezing despite the warm lights above me. The anesthesiologist approached, syringe in hand, his voice far too calm for the moment.

“You’ll feel a slight burning sensation,” he said.

The needle went into my spine. I felt the cold spread up my back, the tingling descending through my legs. But I was so nervous that I wasn’t even sure if the anesthesia had worked. My chest rose and fell too quickly. The monitors beeped nonstop — blood pressure rising, heart rate fast and erratic, as if my body were at war with itself, as if it knew something wasn’t right.

I closed my eyes, trying to breathe. Faith moved inside me, kicking hard against my ribs, as if trying to tell me she was scared too. I caressed my belly over the sheet, whispering to her in my mind: “Hold on, my love. Mommy’s here. We’re going to be okay.”

The obstetrician finally arrived. She put on her mask and gloves with precise movements, her eyes kind but focused. She approached me and touched my shoulder with her gloved hand.

“Lily, calm down. Breathe slowly. Everything is going to be okay. I promise. We’re all here to take care of you and Faith.”

I looked at her and nodded slowly, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes. My body was shaking. Samantha squeezed my hand tighter.

The doctor smiled beneath her mask.

“Just to reassure you: as soon as Faith is born, as soon as she cries, the team will bring her to you for skin-to-skin contact. We’ll let you meet her right away. It’s going to be beautiful.”

I nodded, but doubt consumed me like poison.

“What if she doesn’t cry?” I asked, my voice trembling, almost a sob.

The doctor hesitated for a fraction of a second but kept her tone calm and professional.

“We’re prepared for that. We have a neonatal team ready to check and act as needed. But don’t focus on that now, Lily. Focus on your breathing. Focus on bringing your daughter into the world. She’s strong. You’re strong.”

But I could only focus on that. On the silence that might come. On the cry that might not happen. Everything seemed to last for hours. I watched the team moving around me — instruments being arranged, low voices exchanging information, the anesthesiologist adjusting the mask. I felt my body strange, numb from the waist down, but still present, as if part of me was too awake. Something didn’t feel right. There was a pressure in my chest, a discomfort I couldn’t explain. It was almost unbearable.

The obstetrician leaned over me, her eyes gentle above the mask.

“It’s almost time, Lily. Breathe. We’re bringing her now.”

I nodded, tears already streaming down the corners of my eyes, soaking the blue sheet covering me. My heart was beating so hard the monitors beeped nonstop, a sharp, insistent sound echoing through the room like an emergency alarm. I felt every beat, every pulse, as if my body were about to split in two.

Then came the pressure.

A strange, deep sensation, as if something were being pulled from inside me. It didn’t hurt — the anesthesia was doing its job — but it was invasive, surreal, as if my body was no longer mine. I held my breath. Samantha squeezed my hand harder.

“She’s here,” the doctor whispered, her voice calm but filled with professional emotion. “Look.”

And then she lifted her.

Faith.

My daughter.

The world stopped.

She was so small. So incredibly small. Her little pink body, wet and glistening under the bright lights. Her tiny arms hanging, her thin legs moving slowly, as if testing the air for the first time. Her dark, wet hair stuck to her little head. Her eyes closed, her face scrunched up — perfect, alive.

I let out a loud, broken sob that came from the depths of my soul.

“Faith…” I murmured, my voice hoarse and trembling. “My Faith…”

She wasn’t crying. Her eyes remained closed, her little body limp, almost inert in the doctor’s arms. I waited for the cry. I waited for the sound everyone says is the most beautiful in the world. But it didn’t come. Only silence, interrupted by the accelerated beeps of the monitors.

“Why isn’t she crying?” I asked, my voice rising in desperation. “Why isn’t she crying?! Doctor, please… what’s happening?”

The doctor didn’t answer immediately. She looked at the team, her voice urgent but controlled:

“Neonatal team, now. Saturation dropping. Let’s check.”

They moved away with her. They took my daughter to a side table, turned on brighter lights, put on masks, tubes, instruments. I stretched out my arm desperately, as if I could reach her from across the room.

“Let me see her! Please! I need to see my daughter!”

The monitors beeped louder now. My heart raced uncontrollably. My blood pressure was dropping. I felt worse, my body heavy, my vision blurry, the world spinning in white and blue blurs. Samantha cried beside me, squeezing my hand, murmuring words I could barely hear.

“She’s okay, Lily… they’re taking care of her… breathe…”

But I could only focus on the side table. On the small, still body. On the silence that wouldn’t end. On the fear that consumed me like fire.

“Faith…” I whispered, my voice failing. “Please cry… please…”

The doctor looked at the monitor, worried, her voice sharp:

“Pressure dropping. Let’s stabilize. Increase oxygen. Prepare for intubation if necessary.”

I felt panic rise like a wave. The anesthesiologist placed the mask over my face, his voice urgent:

“Breathe deeply, Lily. Everything is going to be okay.”

Everything was spinning. The lights became bright blurs. The sounds grew distant, underwater. I saw Samuel’s face for a second before everything went dark.

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SAMANTHA POV

I left the operating room as if the air inside had suffocated me for hours. The doors closed behind me with a soft, almost gentle click, but it sounded like the end of a chapter I never wanted to write. My hands trembled as I removed the surgical cap, the blue gown, the gloves, and the shoe covers. Each piece I took off seemed to carry more weight than the last. The fabric was still warm from my body, damp with nervous sweat. I straightened myself in the changing room in absolute silence, the mirror reflecting a woman I barely recognized — deep dark circles, red eyes, a face marked by exhaustion that went beyond the physical. And now, as I looked at myself in the mirror, I wondered if I had failed as a mother, as a stepmother, as a woman.

I took a deep breath, adjusted my blazer, and ran my hand through my hair, trying to look composed. It didn’t help. My heart was still racing. I left the changing room and walked down the cold, white hospital corridor, my heels echoing like muffled gunshots. Each step brought me closer to the nursery gallery, where newborns were displayed like little victories of life.

I stopped in front of the thick glass. My heart nearly stopped.

There she was.

A beautiful little girl, pink, with a tuft of dark, wet hair stuck to her tiny head. She lay in the bassinet, eyes closed, little fists clenched, her chest rising and falling in small, perfect breaths. The card beside her simply read: “It’s a girl.”

I rested my forehead against the cold glass, feeling silent tears run down my face. She was so small. So fragile. So much like Samuel when he was born — the same delicate features, the same upturned nose, the same air of someone already arriving in the world fighting. I placed my hand on the glass, as if I could touch her through the barrier.

Emotions flooded me like a wave. Love. Guilt. Fear. Joy. I had two granddaughters arriving almost at the same time. One from Ashley, another from Lily. Both from my son. Both part of me. And I had spent months hiding, manipulating, trying to control the inevitable. Now, looking at that baby, I felt small. Insignificant. A grandmother who had failed to protect what she loved most.

I took my phone out of my pocket with trembling hands. The screen was blurred by my tears. I dialed the number I knew by heart, the number I had avoided for so long.

Two rings.

The voice on the other end sounded tired but familiar.

“What is it, Samantha?”

I took a deep breath, feeling my chest tighten as if it were about to break.

“Hello, Samuel… I’m calling to tell you that you’re a father now.”

The silence that followed was the heaviest of my life.