Page 8 — The Final Weeks
The pregnancy became a careful balancing act.
My doctors monitored me constantly.
Liam continued growing.
My kidney mass remained under close observation.
Every appointment brought two questions.
“How is the baby?”
And:
“How is Margaret?”
I began keeping a notebook.
On one page, I wrote Liam’s measurements.
On another, I wrote down questions for the doctors.
On another, I wrote letters.
Letters to Thomas.
Letters to my children.
And one letter to Emily.
I didn’t know if anyone would ever read them.
But writing made me feel less helpless.
One evening, I sat alone in the nursery.
The crib was already assembled.
Tiny clothes were folded inside the dresser.
Thomas had painted one wall a soft blue.
I placed my hand over my stomach.
Liam kicked.
I smiled.
“Your sister would have loved you.”
I paused.
Then whispered:
“I wish she could meet you.”
The baby kicked again.
I laughed.
“Was that your answer?”
For the first time, I wasn’t afraid of the future.
I was simply determined to reach it.
At thirty-seven weeks, the doctors decided it was time.
The delivery plan was carefully discussed.
I was terrified.
But I was ready.
Thomas stayed beside me the entire time.
“You’ve got this,” he whispered.
“I don’t know if I do.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You’re not allowed to leave.”
“I won’t.”
Hours later, I heard a cry.
A strong, angry cry.
A nurse lifted the baby.
“He’s here.”
I started crying before they even placed him against my chest.
Then Liam was on me.
Tiny.
Warm.
Alive.
I stared at his face.
“Hi,” I whispered.
“I’m your mother.”
Thomas was crying too.
He kissed my forehead.
“We made it.”
I looked at Liam.
And something inside me finally became quiet.
The hallway in my dream was gone.
