Annabelle shoots me a death glare.
The nurse just side-eyes me like she’s this close to sedatingmeinstead of the woman currently threatening to break my fingers with her grip ...
Annabelle is mid-contraction, teeth bared, eyes locked on mine like she’s trying to laser-burn my soul. “You breathe that loud again and Iwillput this IV pole through your chest.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She’s terrifying.
“Stopcalling me ‘ma’am.’”
“Yes, sweetheart. Light of my life.”
Then there’s a whirlwind of activity. Beeping. Gloves snapping. A tray of shiny, alarming instruments appears from nowhere.I am not ready for this.
“You’re doing amazing,” someone says—I think it’s me, though it could be the ghost of my confidence leaving my body.
And then.
And then.
Holy shit, there’s crying.
Not Annabelle this time.
Not me, either—although I’m close.
But a brand-new, real, actualbabywailing because someone dared to interrupt his nap schedule before he had a chance to see his crib.
“Here’s your healthy, beautiful baby—” the doctor begins.
I squeeze Annabelle’s hand. We both look up, expectant, exhausted, a little feral.
“—girl!”
“Wait.” I blink. “What?”
Say that again?
“A girl?” Annabelle blinks. “Are you sure?”
We look down at the doctor at the same time, in synchronizedexhausteddisbelief.
“A girl?” we chorus, eyes locked on the swaddled bundle in the nurse’s arms carrying the ultimate plot twist in my direction.
“I already ordered the little football jersey with my number on it,” I mutter, dazed, as the nurse hands over the baby.
She’s tiny.
Pink.
A little furious about being born. Her fists are balled up tight beneath her chin like she’s ready to throw hands with the entire world. Wisps of dark hair peek out from beneath her striped hat, and her nose? Scrunched as if she’s about to start wailing.
A perfect bitty burrito of attitude.
Just like her mother.
Annabelle’s laugh is half a sob. “She’ll be so pretty in that jersey.”
And just like that, I’m holding the entire universe in an angry little bundle.
