There was an almost electric sense of expectancy in the delivery room. Emma, my wife, was lying on the hospital bed with her fingers clenched around mine and a look of excitement mixed with fatigue. A dreamlike atmosphere was created by the quiet voices of the nurses, the regular beeping of the monitors, and the doctor’s gentle words of encouragement.
It was this. The time we had been anticipating. Choosing baby clothes, experiencing small kicks in the middle of the night, and nine months of delight. We spent nine months wondering if our
unborn child would have Emma’s golden hair. My angular cheekbones? The dimples that were inherited? Everything else in the room was broken by a piercing wail. The baby was here.
I looked over and saw the doctor gently lifting our baby, her face wrinkled up as she drew her first breaths, her tiny limbs wriggling. My eyes pricked with tears. She was flawless. But Emma’s terrified scream, which I had not anticipated, broke the moment. Read more below
