Page 133 of Beloved Beauty

The door swings open again, this time with purpose.

“How are we doing, Mum?” Dr. Shah asks.

I grit my teeth through a contraction and breathe out the pain. “I need to push.”

Dr. Shah steps in, snapping on gloves as the nurse behind her ties her gown. “Nice work, Magnolia. You’re almost there. Baby’s head is crowning, so this is almost over with.”

Alex stands by my head, holding my hand. He hasn’t let go since he arrived. “You’ve got this,” he whispers. “You’re almost there, babe.”

The doctor nods. “All right, let’s meet this little one.”

The medical team bustles around the room, adjusting lights and prepping supplies. Someone makes a comment about the game, about Alex’s performance on the field.

“You just won a Grand Final and now you’re about to have a baby. Big day for you.”

Alex grins, but his focus never leaves me. “Best day ever.”

The nurse helps me pull my legs back, and it’s time. The pressure is overwhelming. Raw. Unrelenting.

And I push.

I cry out, my grip on Alex’s hand tightening. He whispers encouragement against my ear, soft and steady, grounding me. “I love you, favorite. You’re doing an amazing job. You’re so strong.”

The nurse counts, and I push again.

Time blurs into a haze of sweat, groans, and effort. The pressure crests again and again.

Finally, the doctor’s voice cuts through. “One more, Magnolia. He’s almost here.”

I bear down, channeling every ounce of strength I have left. There’s a shift. A release.

A cry.

A loud, healthy, perfect cry.

The doctor lifts him into the air, grinning. “It’s a boy!”

A sob breaks loose from my chest. Alex leans down and kisses my forehead, then my lips.

The nurse places our son on my chest, still slick and squirming. Thick black hair covers his head, and strong lungs announce his arrival to the world without hesitation.

I cradle him close, my gown pulled open so his skin can rest against mine. He settles almost instantly.

Alex strokes the damp hair on our son’s head. His voice breaks when he speaks. “Hello, Lex.”

“Alexander Björn Sebring IV,” I whisper. “Welcome to the world.”

The next stretch of time passes in fragments—nurses bustling, soft murmurs, warm blankets. My body is trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion, but I barely notice. I’m too focused on the weight of him in my arms and the way Alex keeps pressing kisses to my forehead.

Eventually, they take Lex from my chest, and the nurse helps me sit back against a pile of fresh pillows. Someone adjusts the blankets over my legs, and I vaguely register the sting of stitches, the hum of postpartum care—but it all feels far away, softened by the baby-shaped wonder across the room.

They bring Lex back, and Alex eases into the bed beside me. Our son makes a soft noise, rooting, I think, and the nurse helps guide him to my breast. Skin to skin again.

Alex settles in, one arm wrapped around my shoulders, the other supporting our son as he latches on to my breast for the first time.

Peace settles over us.

Soft. Silent. Sacred.

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