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Three years later.
“Keep pushing, baby.”
Even through the agonizing pain of a contraction, I find it in myself to glare at him.
“You’re getting a vasectomy,” I scream.
Apparently, this is what they call a natural birth.
There’s nothing natural about this pain.
My organs are being ripped out.
“Just another few pushes, Mrs. Williams.” I can’t even see the midwife. My vision is too blurry.
“Please, call me Claire,” I cry. She’s between my legs. I think we’re on a first-name basis.
Sweat soaking every inch of my body, I push and push until my lungs are burning.
And oh, sweet fuck.
Everything burns.
And I meaneverything.
Holy shit.
The midwife turns to Jake, smiling.
Why is she smiling?
“Dad, would you like to look?”
He turns a shade of green.
“Oh, he wants to look,” I grit through clenched teeth, squeezing his hand. The bastard doesn’t flinch.
He looks.
He visibly pales.
Good.
He’s not allowed near me with that thing ever again.
He kisses my forehead.
I want to punch him in the throat.
Chin to my chest, it takes one last final push, and the rest of the world disappears.
There’s a weight on my chest.
Oh, God.
There’s a baby on my chest.
My baby.
