Except I feel anything but.
“Okay, just lie back here and keep breathing for me.” The doctor moves around me, her voice calm and steady, but I barely register her words.
My mind is elsewhere, still trapped in the endless hours of solitude. This doesn’t feel real; it’s as if it’s happening to someone else entirely.
And the problem is, I understand why it had to be this way. From the snippets of information that Isabella has been able to get to me, the war has been brutal and dangerous, and absolutely no place for a pregnant woman.
I’ve had so much time to think about it. Hell, I’ve had too much time to think about all of it. And yes, I see the logic in keeping me out of harm's way.
But what about the father-to-be? What about the man who should be here right now?
A groan of pain worms itself out of my mouth as the contraction comes to a ruthless conclusion.
“There you go,” the doctor praises me as I pant with my entire chest. “You’re doing great. Drink some water, okay?”
It’s just the two of us, but she’s already prepared everything in the medical suite. I reach for the plastic cup eagerly, letting the cool liquid soothe the back of my aching throat.
I can endure this. If this is happening, if it’s real. If I’m about to give birth in a bunker, miles away from everyone I love, I will endure it.
Because all I’ve done these last four months is endure. And this pain is temporary, but the grief I hold for my father will stay with me for the rest of my life.
I’ve endured the replaying of memories. The cadence of my father’s laughter, the sternness of his absolute authority just waiting for me to undermine. The familiarity of his hands.
I’ll never be able to hold them and tell him just how much I love him despite all of his flaws. I’ll never be able to whisper that he could never do anything that would ever be enough for me to turn away from him forever.
He’s gone.
Grief isn’t sharp anymore. It’s dulled, like an ache in old wounds, but it’s constant.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I whisper, the words echoing the tragic voice of my lonely soul aren’t meant for the doctor. But she reaches for my hand anyway.
“You are so brave. You’re doing so well. I’m here. I’m not much, but you can pretend I’m whoever you need me to be.”
And really, there’s only one person I need to be here.
For months, I’ve tried to convince myself that our relationship doesn’t matter, not in the face of everything else.
But the truth is, it does. The truth is, Leon has been important to me since the moment he kissed my hand at the altar.
And maybe it is one-sided. Maybe he’s never seen me as anything more than a means to an end.
But I can’t ignore the way I long for him now in my most desperate moments. I can’t ignore the way I light up just at the memory of his touch. I can’t forget that despite everything, despite my isolation, despite his absence, despite my father and a war and Amos Rubio….
I’m not going to stop loving him.
“Mrs. Natali,” the doctor says gently, breaking through my thoughts. “We’re up to four centimeters now. Things are moving quite quickly, okay? So take a breath whenever you can.”
The contractions are closer together now, their intensity sharpening. I grip the edge of the bed, trying to steady my breathing, but my chest tightens with panic.
Does Leon even know?
He’s been out there, fighting a war for months, risking his life to keep me safe.
Every day I’ve been in this bunker, I’ve feared the news of his death. Some nights, I’ve woken from nightmares where his bloodied body was the last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed me whole.
“Focus on your breathing,” the doctor says, her hands on my arm.
I nod but don’t answer. My thoughts are too loud, too chaotic.
