I stood at the end of the bed with one of my partner’s feet braced against my chest. We had made a careful plan, but failed to consult the baby about to be born.
Hours before, Elena’s waters had broken, and now we were in hospital. My role was simple: don’t get in the way, and remain calm. Privately, my veins churned with adrenaline and cortisol, and every subversion of my expectations felt disorienting. The midwife fumbled the cannula, blew a vein. There was too much epidural; Elena couldn’t feel her contractions. A doctor breezed in, eyed the clock, announced matter-of-factly that she would soon need to perform an episiotomy. This was not the plan. Elena shuddered, drove her heel into my ribs, let out a guttural cry, and our child slipped into the room, amaranth skin and dark hair lacquered in shimmering crimson, like a rainbow spread over oil.
