The delivery room smelled like antiseptic and rain-wet coats, a storm of footsteps and clipped instructions swirling around a girl who looked too young to be wearing a hospital bracelet with the word “Mother” on it.
Nora was nineteen, cheeks glossy with sweat, hair stuck to her temples in dark commas. She clutched the bed rail as another contraction folded her in half, the monitor scrawling frantic peaks that made the air feel thin.
“You’re doing great,” said Dr. Patel, voice steady, hands calm. The nurse counted in a rhythm that tried to tame the hurt into numbers: “Breathe… three, four, five…”
In the corner, a bassinet waited beneath a heat lamp that wasn’t on yet. A pink knit cap sat folded on its edge, small enough to make time itself seem fragile.
Another contraction surged. Nora gritted her teeth and pushed, everything else falling away—noise, faces, questions—until the room narrowed to the point where pain becomes purpose.
A cry split the room—thin, wild, alive. The nurse laughed through tears as she lifted a slick, furious miracle into view. “Baby’s here,” she said. “Strong lungs.”
Nora reached with shaking hands, eyes wide and terrified and certain all at once. The world zoomed in on the curve of a tiny ear, the fist that opened and closed like it was practicing hello.
Dr. Patel wrapped the baby and set the bundle against Nora’s chest. For a heartbeat, everything went quiet enough to hear the clock breathe.
Then the doctor cleared his throat gently and said the question that froze Nora in place: “Nora… who is the father?”
