I’ve been in labor for fourteen hours, and I’m starting to understand why people describe childbirth as a form of torture.
The contractions are relentless. Wave after wave of pain that makes everything else I’ve endured seem manageable by comparison. I’ve been shot at. I’ve killed a man. I’ve faced down assassins and board members and my own dying father.
None of it compares to this.
“You’re doing great,” Sergei says for what must be the hundredth time. His hand is in mine, has been since this started. I’m gripping so hard I know I’m leaving bruises, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.
“I hate you,” I gasp between contractions. “I hate you so much right now.”
“I know.” There’s something soft in his voice. Understanding. “You can hate me all you want.”
Another contraction hits. I scream, my entire body tensing against the pain. It feels like I’m being ripped apart from the inside.
“Breathe,” the doctor says. “Sofia, you need to breathe through it.”
I try. I really do. But the pain is overwhelming, consuming everything else. I should have taken the epidural. But no, I was Sofia Sokolov. I didn’t need it.
“I swear to God, if we ever do this again, you better jab me with that fucking needle yourself,” I hiss.
Sergei’s other hand comes up to cup my face. “Look at me,” he says. “Just look at me.”
I do. His blue eyes lock on mine.
“Breathe with me,” he says. He takes a slow breath in, then out. “Come on. With me.”
I match his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The contraction doesn’t lessen, but having something to focus on helps. He’s so calm. Steady. Always.
“Good,” he murmurs. “That’s good,buntarka.”
I don’t feel rebellious. I feel tortured. But that one sweet sentiment gives me strength.
The hours blur together. Pain and breathing and Sergei’s hand in mine. At some point, I stop tracking time. Stop thinking about anything except getting through the next contraction.
“Okay, Sofia,” the doctor says. “You’re fully dilated. On the next contraction, I need you to push.”
Terror floods through me. This is it. This is actually happening.
“I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can,buntarka.” Sergei’s voice is firm. “You can do this.”
He presses his forehead against mine. It’s like he infuses me with his strength. I feel it. I take it all and brace myself.
The next contraction hits, and I’m bearing down with everything I have.
“Again,” the doctor says. “Push again.”
I give it my all.
“I can see the head,” the doctor says. “One more big push, Sofia. Come on.”
I grip Sergei’s hand so hard I’m certain I’m breaking bones. I push with everything I have left.
And then I hear it. A cry. High-pitched and angry and the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
“You have a very healthy, angry son,” the doctor announces.
I collapse back against the pillows, gasping. Tears stream down my face.