Updated Mar 13, 2026 • ~6 min read
Pregnancy is not what I expected.
Everyone talks about the glow. The joy. The beautiful miracle of creating life.
Nobody mentions the exhaustion. The heartburn. The swollen ankles. The fact that nothing fits and everything hurts.
“You’re glowing,” people say.
I’m sweating. That’s sweat, not glow.
But Holden is perfect through all of it.
He brings me saltines when I’m nauseous. Rubs my feet every night without being asked. Talks to my belly like our daughter can already hear him.
(She probably can. We’re at twenty-six weeks now.)
“Hey, Emma,” he says one night, his mouth pressed to my stomach. “It’s Dad. Just wanted to remind you that your mom is the strongest person I know. She’s growing you and running a business and somehow still looking beautiful even though she claims she looks like a whale.”
“I heard that.”
“You’re supposed to hear it. It’s true.”
“I’m huge.”
“You’re pregnant. There’s a difference.”
“I can’t see my feet.”
“I’ll be your feet. What do you need to know about them?”
Despite everything, I laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
I do. God, I really do.
We prepare for Emma’s arrival with military precision.
The nursery is first. We paint it a soft yellow—neutral but warm. Holden assembles the crib (it takes three hours and a lot of swearing). I organize tiny clothes by size.
“She’s going to grow out of most of this before she wears it,” Holden notes, looking at the newborn outfits.
“I know. But look how tiny they are.”
“They’re very tiny.”
We attend birthing classes. Learn about contractions and breathing and what to expect.
The other couples are so calm. So prepared.
We’re a mess.
“What if I drop her?” Holden whispers during a diaper demonstration.
“You’re not going to drop her.”
“But what if I do?”
“Then we’ll catch her together.”
The instructor—a cheerful woman named Patricia—overhears us.
“You’re going to be fine,” she assures us. “All new parents are scared. That’s normal.”
“Even if we have no idea what we’re doing?”
“Especially then. Fear keeps you careful. Just love her and try your best. That’s all anyone can do.”
It’s good advice.
Doesn’t make me less terrified, but it helps.
At thirty weeks, my mom throws a baby shower.
Our house is packed with people. Gifts everywhere. Games and food and laughter.
Margot organized everything with my mom. They’re basically best friends now.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, overwhelmed.
“Of course we did,” my mom replies. “Our first grandbaby? We’re celebrating.”
Eleanor is equally excited. She and my mom have bonded over grandparent preparation. They’ve already bought matching “Grandma” and “Nana” t-shirts.
“We’re going to spoil her so much,” Eleanor announces.
“That’s the grandparent job,” my dad adds.
Wren hands me a gift. “From all of us at the office.”
I open it. A beautiful baby book for recording first moments.
“Thank you,” I say, tearing up. “This is perfect.”
“You’re crying again,” Wren notes.
“Pregnancy hormones.”
“You cried at a diaper commercial yesterday.”
“It was emotional! The dad didn’t know how to change diapers and then he learned!”
Everyone laughs.
But they get it. They’re all being so patient with my emotional swings.
Noah gives me a gift privately. A framed photo of us as kids.
“For Emma’s room,” he explains. “So she knows her mom was once a kid too. And her uncle was always cooler.”
“You were not cooler.”
“I absolutely was.”
I hug him. “Thank you for being excited about this.”
“Are you kidding? I’m going to be the best uncle ever. Already planning to teach her inappropriate things.”
“Noah.”
“I’m kidding. Mostly.”
At thirty-five weeks, I’m huge.
Officially whale-sized.
I can barely move. Sleep is impossible. Everything is uncomfortable.
“How much longer?” I ask Holden one night.
“Five weeks, give or take.”
“I can’t do five more weeks.”
“You can do anything.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not carrying a human.”
“True. But I am carrying you.”
He’s been amazing. Doing all the cooking and cleaning. Handling my work calls when I’m too tired. Being endlessly patient with my mood swings.
“I love you,” I say suddenly.
“I love you too.”
“Even when I’m huge and emotional and mean?”
“You’re not mean. You’re growing our daughter. You’re allowed to be emotional.”
“Still. Thank you. For being perfect.”
“I’m not perfect.”
“You’re perfect for me.”
He kisses my forehead. “Five more weeks. Then we meet her.”
Five weeks.
I can do five weeks.
Maybe.
At thirty-eight weeks, I’m done.
Completely, totally done.
“I want her out,” I tell my doctor at a checkup.
“She’ll come when she’s ready.”
“What if she’s never ready? What if she just stays in there forever?”
Dr. Patel laughs. “That’s not how this works. Any day now, I promise.”
Any day now.
Those words keep me going.
Any day now, we’ll meet our daughter.
Any day now, this will all be worth it.
Holden sets up the hospital bag by the door. Car seat installed. Nursery ready.
We’re prepared.
As prepared as we’ll ever be.
“What if we’re terrible at this?” I ask one night.
“We won’t be.”
“But what if we are?”
“Then we’ll learn. Together. Like everything else we’ve done.”
He’s right. We figured out marriage. Bought a house. Built careers.
We can figure out parenting.
We have to.
Because ready or not, Emma is coming.
And our lives are about to change forever.
Again.
That night, I wake up to a sharp pain.
Different from the practice contractions I’ve been having.
Real.
“Holden,” I shake his shoulder. “Holden, wake up.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I think—I think it’s time.”
He sits up immediately. “Time time?”
“Time time.”
Another contraction. Stronger.
“Okay,” he says, switching to calm mode. “Okay, we’ve got this. Bag is packed. Car seat is in. Let me just—where are my keys?”
“Holden.”
“And my phone. Where’s my phone?”
“HOLDEN.”
He looks at me.
“Breathe,” I say. “We’ve got this.”
He takes a breath. Nods.
“We’ve got this.”
We gather our things. Head to the hospital.
This is it.
We’re about to meet our daughter.
Ready or not, here we go.
END OF CHAPTER 29
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