Ryan stands and pulls his phone out of his pocket. I can’t see the doctor or anyone else, so my eyes are trained on Ryan, watching his expression.
“And it’s a… boy,” the doctor says.
A boy. I have a baby boy. Ryan and I have a baby boy.
Ryan’s eyes fill with emotion, but he doesn’t take any pictures. And then it hits me. The baby isn’t crying.
“Ryan,” I say nervously. “Why isn’t the baby crying?” My heart is beating out of my chest, and it’s hard to breathe. Something is wrong. On every TV show I’ve ever seen, the baby comes out crying.
I hear the doctor and nurses talking, but it’s hard to make out what they’re saying.
“Ryan…”
“Everything is okay,” Ryan says tightly, his eyes never leaving whatever it is he’s looking at.
“I can’t hear him,” I cry. “He should be crying.”
“It’s okay,” Ryan says softly. “They’re working on him. He’s beautiful… perfect.”
“But he’s not—”
And then I hear it. The most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life. My son crying. Tears drip down Ryan’s face as he holds the phone up and snaps some pictures.
A minute later, a nurse walks over with the bundled up baby. “Here he is,” she says. “Say hello to your baby boy.”
She holds him next to me and I lift my face mask to give him a soft kiss on his cheek. “Is he okay?”
“He was having a little trouble adapting to the world. I’m going to take him to the NICU to get him checked out. Once you’re out of recovery, we’ll take you to see him.” And with those parting words, she whisks my baby away.
“Ryan, go with them, please,” I plead.
“What about you?” he asks, his tone filled with concern and uncertainty.
“I’m fine.” I lock eyes with him. “Go make sure our son is okay, please.”
“Okay.”
I lie, staring at the ceiling while the doctor closes me back up. It feels like hours before I’m finally rolled back to my room. When I get there, Ryan is waiting. I glance around, but there’s no baby.
“Where is he?” I ask, panicking.
“Whoa, calm down. They want him to stay in the NICU so they can monitor him to be on the safe side, but he’s perfect, Micaela. I promise.” Ryan takes my hand in his and brings my knuckles to his lips. “He’s so fucking perfect. He’s eight pounds exactly. Twenty-two inches. He has a full head of curly brown hair. His eyes are a dark blue like mine, but the nurse said they can change… and his lips…” He traces my lips with his finger. “They’re heart-shaped like yours. He’s the perfect combination of us.”
Chills run down my spine when he touches me. I’ve missed Ryan so much. When I was alone, I would imagine what it would be like if things were different. If he wasn’t in the military and in Afghanistan. We would’ve taken the pregnancy test together. He would’ve gathered me into his arms and told me he loved me and couldn’t wait for the baby. We would’ve moved in together and spent months decorating the baby’s nursery.
Ryan pulls his phone out and turns the screen so I can see the pictures he took of our sweet baby boy. My heart swells with a love so strong I can barely breathe. “You got to hold him?” I ask, when he gets to a picture of him holding our son.
“Yeah. Your mom took the picture. She’s with him now.”
“I want to see him.”
“The nurse said you have to wait for the epidural to wear off and then I can wheel you to the NICU.”
“I want to see him now.” I pout, my emotions getting the better of me. “I’m fine.”
“That’s because you’re numb from the epidural,” the nurse says, strolling in. “And once it wears off, you will feel everything. You will be prescribed something so you’re not in pain, but it won’t numb you.”
“I want to see my baby.”
“And you will, but we can’t let you get up yet.”
“Can you bring him here? Aren’t babies supposed to stay in the room with their moms?”
“Because he was struggling when he arrived, he will have to stay in the NICU. It’s hospital policy.”
“For how long?”
“Until you both are released. The good news is you’ll get some rest, so take advantage of it, but you will have to go visit him. Are you planning to breastfeed?”
“Yes, for as long as I can, then I’m going to try to pump.”
“Okay, as soon as we can, we’ll get you over to your baby.”
I close my eyes in frustration. I want to see him now. He needs to see me, to know who I am.
Ryan
I watch as Micaela struggles to remain in bed and not try to bolt to find our son. She’s so beautiful. So strong. She just had her baby ripped from her body and was glued back together. She should be exhausted, passed out, getting some rest, yet all she cares about is getting to our son. Our son. Fuck, I have a son. With Micaela. A beautiful, perfect son. This entire day has been crazy. I came home to visit my family, hoping to see Micaela. But I never in a million years would’ve thought I would show up at her house and find out she was pregnant with my son.
While we’re waiting for her to be able to go to the NICU, our families stop in to visit. Her brother is carrying balloons, and her dad has a bouquet of flowers. My sisters each give her baby gifts, which keeps her occupied—opening the boxes of clothes and chatting about them—but I can see it in her eyes. She’s being polite, but all she wants is to get to our son.
“I hate this,” she says with the most adorable pout when everyone leaves so she can get some rest.
“I’m sure it won’t be much longer.”
She rolls her eyes, and I laugh. Fuck, I’ve missed her so much. I want to be mad at her, but my heart is too full. She gave me the most precious gift in the entire world.
“Do you have a name in mind?” I ask, trying to distract her.
“I thought of a couple, but I’m not set on one. Any names significant to you?” she asks. “Anyone you want to name him after?”
I give her question some thought. I was adopted, so I don’t know where my name comes from or why I have it. I have no middle name. I don’t know any of my biological family members. And then it hits me… This baby is the first biological relative I know. He has my blood running through his veins. I never not considered my family, my family just because we don’t share blood. But knowing my son does has my heart pumping hard against my ribcage. I don’t know who my biological father is. He was a piece of shit, and I don’t care to know him. But I know who the man who raised and loved me is: Bentley Ryan Cruz. The man who took me in, gave me his last name, and loved me like his own.
“What are you thinking?” Micaela asks.
“Um… well… my dad’s middle name is Ryan. He’s named after his dad, which coincidently is also my name.”
Micaela smiles softly. “I didn’t know that. That’s really cool. Like it was meant to be. Would you like to name him Ryan?”