I nod. I’m sure I could call them right now, but I kind
of just want to make sure we make it to the hospital first,
because it feels like this baby is being really impatient and
wants to make its debut right here in the car.
We make it to the hospital, but my contractions are less
than a minute apart when we arrive. By the time the
doctor scrubs in and they get me to a bed, I’m dilated to a
nine. It’s only five minutes later when I’m being told to
push. Ryle doesn’t even have a chance to call anyone, it
all happens so fast.
I squeeze Ryle’s hand with every push. At one point, I
think about how important the hand I’m squeezing is to
his career, but he says nothing. He just allows me to
squeeze it as hard as I possibly can, and that’s exactly what
I do.
“The
head is almost out,” the doctor says. “Just a few
more pushes.”
I can’t even describe the next few minutes. It’s a blur
of pain and heavy breathing and anxiety and pure,
unequivocal elation. And pressure. Such an enormous
pressure, like I’m about to implode, and then, “It’s a girl!”
Ryle says. “Lily, we have a daughter!”
I open my eyes and the doctor is holding her up. I can
only make out the outline of her, because my eyes are full
of too many tears. When they lay her on my chest, it’s the
absolute greatest moment of my life. I immediately touch
her red lips and cheeks and fingers.
Ryle cuts the
umbilical cord, and when they take her from me to clean
her up, I feel empty.
A few minutes later she’s back on my chest again,
swaddled in a blanket.
I can do nothing but stare at her.
Ryle sits on the bed next to me and pulls the blanket
down around her chin so we can get a better look at her
face. We count her fingers and her toes. She tries to open
her eyes and we think it’s the funniest thing in the world.
She yawns and we both smile and fall even more in love
with her.
After the last nurse leaves the room and we’re finally
alone, Ryle asks if he can hold her. He raises the head of
my bed to make it easier for both of us to sit on the bed.
After I hand her to him, I
lay my head on his shoulder
and we just can’t stop staring at her.
“Lily,” he whispers. “Naked truth?”
I nod.
“She’s so much prettier than Marshall and Allysa’s
baby.”
I laugh and elbow him.
“I’m kidding,” he whispers.
I know exactly what he means, though. Rylee is a
gorgeous baby, but no one will ever hold a candle to our
own daughter.
“What should we name her?” he asks. We didn’t have
the typical relationship
during this pregnancy, so the
baby’s name hasn’t been something we’ve discussed yet.
“I’d like to name her after your sister,” I say, glancing at
him. “Or maybe your brother?”
I’m not sure what he thinks of that. I personally think
naming our daughter after his brother could be
somewhat healing for him, but he may not see it that way.
He
glances over at me, not expecting that answer.
“Emerson?” he says. “That’s kind of cute for a girl name.
We could call her Emma. Or Emmy.” He smiles proudly
and looks down at her. “It’s perfect, actually.” He leans
down and kisses Emerson on her forehead.
After a while, I pull away from his shoulder so I can
watch him hold her. It’s
a beautiful thing, seeing him
interact with her like this. I can already see how much
love he has for her just from the little time he’s known
her. I can see that he would do anything to protect her.
Anything in the world.
It isn’t until this moment that I finally make a decision
about him.
About us.
About what’s best for our family.
Ryle is amazing in so many ways. He’s compassionate.
He’s caring. He’s smart. He’s charismatic. He’s driven.
My father was some of these things, too. He wasn’t very
compassionate toward others,
but there were times we
spent together that I knew he loved me. He was smart. He
was charismatic. He was driven. But I hated him so much
more than I loved him. I was blinded to all the best things
about him thanks to all the glimpses I got of him when he
was at his worst. Five minutes of witnessing him at his
worst couldn’t make up for even five years of him at his
best.
I look at Emerson and I look at Ryle. And I know that I
have to do what’s best for her. For the relationship I hope
she builds with her father. I don’t make this decision for
me and I don’t make it for Ryle.
I make it for her.
“Ryle?”
When he glances at me, he’s smiling. But when he
assesses the look on my face, he stops.
“I want a divorce.”
He blinks twice. My words hit him like voltage. He
winces and looks
back down at our daughter, his
shoulders hunched forward. “Lily,” he says, shaking his
head back and forth. “Please don’t do this.”
His voice is pleading, and I hate that he’s been holding
on to hope that I would eventually take him back. That’s
