Page 133 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

I exhaled slowly and moved the umbrella back, adjusting it until the shade once again covered me.

“I don’t want a crispy baby either. But if it comes out sarcastic, that’s definitely on you.”

He grinned, and I couldn’t help reaching out and taking his hand. I wouldn’t change a damn thing about us, and I couldn’t wait to have Webb’s baby.

Flash-Forward – 7 Months Later

The Webb Residence (a.k.a. the chaos zone)

To be clear, the plan had been peace. A quiet, low-lit, candle-scented home birth, with soft music, calm breathing, a competent midwife, and Webb holding my hand, saying soothing things in his low, grumbly voice.

That plan lasted exactly thirteen minutes.

I’d just gotten into the birthing tub—trying to decide if the warm water helped or made me want to throw something—when the front door banged open, and Marcus’s voice carried down the hallway.

“Is she crowning? Do I need gloves?”

“Get out!” Webb bellowed from the hallway.

I gripped the sides of the tub and hissed through another contraction. “Tell him if he comes in here with mechanic gloves on, I’m naming the baby Marcusina.”

Webb popped back in, pale and already sweating. “He’s gone, I think.”

“He thinks,” I muttered, panting. “That man once broke into our kitchen through a window because he smelled cinnamon rolls. Lock the door.”

He disappeared again, yelling something about boundaries and family planning.

Our doula, Clara, bless her, remained calm throughout it all. She just smiled gently, checked the baby’s heart rate, and murmured words like “progressing beautifully” and “just breathe.” I wanted to hug her and also scream directly into her face.

Another contraction hit like a wrecking ball. “Webb!” I yelled. “I swear, if you’re hiding again, I’m divorcing you!”

He staggered in like he’d run a marathon. “I’m here! I’m here! I was just…uh…re-boiling water.”

“For what?” I growled. “We’re not making pasta!”

“I don’t know. It’s in all the movies!”

Before I could respond, there was a knock, not on the front door—on the bedroom door.

“Hey,” Jesse called, voice muffled. “I brought snacks. Can I trade a granola bar for a baby name reveal?”

“Get out!” both Webb and I shouted in unison. Clara didn’t even flinch.

By hour four, the brothers had “accidentally” stopped by one by one.

Jackson popped in, claiming he thought it was poker night. Elijah brought a baby blanket and tried to donate a slow cooker “in case we wanted something warm afterward.” Wes just wanted to see if we were alive.

Each of them was screamed at, and each of them fled. And through it all, Webb was a wreck.

He was sweating, pacing, drinking water meant for me, dropping things, whispering apologies to my uterus. At one point, he read aloud a meditation app transcript in a soothing voice until the midwife gently took the phone and turned it off.

“Gabby,” he said around hour six, kneeling by the tub with damp hair stuck to his forehead, “I love you, but I’m going to pass out.”

“If you pass out,” I gritted, “I will birth this baby andthen beat you with it.”

“Roger that.”

When it finally happened—when that last wave hit, and I pushed and screamed and cursed like I was summoning demons—everything stopped.

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