Page 270 of Josephine and Clay

Keep working.

The phrase sounds simple, but it’s not.

Josie’s eyes close, and her whole body trembles.

I have never hated my own helplessness more.

I would take every second of this for her if I could. Every ounce of pain. Every bit of fear.

But I can’t.

All I can do is stand there and be the man I promised I’d become.

The next contraction comes.

I feel her try, but she’s exhausted.

The doctor’s voice stays steady, encouraging, but the room has gone too focused. Too controlled. “Again, Josephine. We need another push.”

“I can’t.”

The words come out ragged, nothing like the woman I know.

Something in my chest cracks.

She shakes her head, tears slipping into her hair. “I can’t. I can’t do it.”

I freeze.

Because Josie doesn’t say that. She doesn’t say can’t. Not about work, about life. Not about me. Not about anything.

Then I move in close.

Close enough that she has to see me.

“Look at me.” Her eyes stay squeezed shut. “Josie.” She sobs. “Look at me, baby.”

Her eyes open.

They’re wild with pain and fear and exhaustion.

I cup her face with both hands. “You remember the barn?”

Confusion flickers. “What?”

“The cribs,” I say, voice thick. “You remember when you saw them?”

Another contraction starts building. I can see it take her. “Clay⁠—”

“You asked if I really built them, and I told you I did. And I meant it then, but I mean it more now.” My voice breaks, and I don’t care. “I built them because I knew they were coming home. Both of them.”

She cries harder.

“Both of them, Josie.”

The doctor says something behind me, but I don’t look away from her.

“You hear me? Our babies are coming home. You’re coming home. We are all going home.”