The bright fluorescent lights of the operating room blurred as my vision wavered. I could hear the muffled voices of the medical team around me, discussing preparations in their calm, professional tones. Despite the numbness spreading through my body from the anesthesia, my heart pounded fiercely, fear threading through every beat.
Dante's hand was the last warm thing I remembered before they rolled me away. He didn't say much—just squeezed my hand and whispered, "You'll be okay, Sienna. I'm right here." I wished I could hold on to his voice longer, but the doors swung shut between us, and the sterile, unfamiliar environment closed in.
"Try to relax, Miss Emily," one of the nurses said, adjusting the IV line. I tried to take a deep breath, but it came out shaky and uneven. The doctor approached, his face half-covered by a surgical mask, but his eyes were kind. "You're doing great," he reassured me. "We'll take good care of you."
I closed my eyes, focusing on the memory of Dante's touch. Even though we hadn't exactly been on the best terms lately, he had been so supportive. Every time I thought of his words of encouragement, it gave me just a little more courage to face the terrifying procedure ahead.
The doctor's voice cut through my thoughts. "We're going to start administering the anesthetic now. You may feel drowsy, and that's completely normal."
I felt the cold liquid flow through the IV, spreading a dull ache through my veins. My eyelids grew heavier, and I struggled to keep them open. A tear slipped down my cheek, and I wasn't sure if it was from fear or the overwhelming thought that when I woke up, everything might be different.
As my consciousness faded, I hung on to one thought: I had to make it through. For myself, for the baby, and maybe even for Dante, though I didn't quite understand why he cared so much. I couldn't afford to fall apart now.
Darkness took over, and I felt like I was sinking into a quiet, deep ocean, far from the noise and chaos of the world.
When I finally surfaced from the black void, the first sensation that registered was pain—a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to pulse through my entire abdomen. I could hear muffled voices again, but they were clearer this time.
Someone's hand was gently brushing the hair from my face. My eyelids fluttered, and I managed to crack them open. Blinding white light made me squint, but then Dante's face came into focus, his expression one of utter relief.
"You're awake," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
I tried to speak, but my throat was dry and sore. Dante quickly grabbed a cup with a straw and held it to my lips. "Just a sip," he advised.
The water was cool and soothing, and I felt a bit more grounded. "What... happened?" I managed to croak out.
"The surgery went well," Dante said, his eyes never leaving mine. "You're okay. The baby's okay."
A sob caught in my throat, and I felt the overwhelming wave of relief crash over me. Dante leaned in to give me a hug, not too tight, "You scared the hell out of me, you know."
I could see the exhaustion clearly visible all over him, and the way his shoulders sagged as if he had been holding his breath for hours. I wanted to say something reassuring, but the effort was too much. I just squeezed his hand, grateful for his presence.
The nurse came in, checking my vitals and explaining the next steps. I only half listened, my focus still on Dante. When she left, he pulled his chair closer to the bed and just sat there, holding my hand. Neither of us spoke, but the silence felt comforting, almost like an unspoken promise that everything would be okay.
In the quiet of the hospital room, I found myself dozing off again, but this time, it was different—more peaceful, less fear. As I drifted, I felt Dante's thumb gently stroking the back of my hand, grounding me to reality, to life, to him.
Maybe, just maybe, things were finally going to be alright.
Few hours later, I was awake again and the doctor informed us it was safe to see the baby now. The sterile white walls of the hospital seemed even more daunting as I mustered the strength to take small, careful steps down the corridor. My body still felt weak from the surgery, but I couldn't wait any longer, and my heart was pounding with a mix of excitement and fear.
Dante walked beside me, his hand lightly on the small of my back, guiding me. I could feel his eyes darting between me and the path ahead, like he was worried I'd collapse any second. His presence was reassuring, though, and I squeezed his hand in silent gratitude.
When we reached the glass doors of the NICU, a nurse greeted us with a warm smile and led us inside. My breath hitched as I saw the row of tiny incubators, each holding a fragile, beautiful life. The nurse led us to one of them, where a small, swaddled bundle lay peacefully, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythmic breaths.
"That's her," the nurse said softly, stepping aside.
I pressed my palm gently against the glass, my eyes misting as I took in my daughter's delicate features. She was so tiny, but so perfect. A little fighter. My little fighter.
"She's beautiful," Dante whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
I glanced up at him, surprised to see his eyes glistening with tears. He rarely showed vulnerability, and it made my heart swell. I couldn't hold back my own tears any longer.
"Yeah, she is," I murmured, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. "I've been thinking... about her name."
Dante looked at me curiously, his hand brushing mine. "You have something in mind?"
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Abigail... Abigail, after your mother. I know how much she wished me well and the baby too and how good she was to me during her stay, I would love for my daughter to take a trait or more from her."
His eyes widened, and for a moment, he was speechless. Then a soft, almost imperceptible smile broke across his face. "Sienna... are you sure?"
"Yes," I whispered, feeling warmth spread through me. "She deserves a name that carries strength and kindness. Just like your mom."
"Thank you," he whispered. "It means more than you know."
We stood there, hands intertwined, watching her sleep peacefully. At that moment, it didn't matter that our relationship was still complicated, or that we hadn't sorted out our own emotions. All that mattered was this tiny life had been brought into the world—a new beginning, wrapped in hope and love.
"Welcome to the world, Abigail," I whispered, smiling through my tears.