Page 101 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Every part of me knows it’s early. Too early. Thirty-four weeks. Still in the danger zone. Still not full term. Still too many unknowns.
But when I look at her, it doesn’t register.
She’s calm. She’s focused. She grips my hand like it’s just another step, like we’re going to do this the same way we’ve done everything else. Together.
The drive is a blur. Tic takes the wheel. Colin calls ahead. I ride in the back with her, coaching breath, rubbing her back when she winces, and counting every second between contractions.
They’re five minutes apart.
Then four.
Then three.
By the time we reach the hospital, the staff is waiting. Her doctor is already in the building. We bypass triage completely and head straight to delivery.
It’s happening. This is real.
They hook her up to monitors, prep the room, and page the pediatric team. We suit up in scrubs. There’s a moment, abrief, haunting flicker, where I wonder what it will feel like if something goes wrong.
I see the fear etched on Tic’s face. He knows it’s too early. We all do. But then Thalassa turns her face toward me, her hand reaching out even in pain. “I’ve got this,” she says, teeth gritted. And I believe her.
The labor is fast. Too fast.
The doctor keeps saying things like “moving quickly” and “we’re progressing nicely,” but all I can think is that we’re out of time and I’m not ready. I’ve spent my life preparing for every possible variable. Except this one.
She clenches her jaw through every contraction. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t cry. She growls once—something primal, deep—and Colin winces and mutters something about wildcats. She laughs, right there in the middle of it.
And then she pushes.
Tic counts. Colin breathes with her. I stand frozen by the head of the bed, completely useless until someone barks, “Dad, come over here.”
I assume they mean someone else. But they don’t. They mean me.
I step closer. Just in time to hear the first cry. A girl. Small, flushed, red-faced, screaming. I thought I’d feel a slow, glowing warmth. Instead, it’s an explosion. Something inside me detonates, and I forget how to breathe.
She’shere.My daughter.
Then it happens again. The doctor turns back. “We’re ready for the second.”
No one moves. Then Thalassa pushes again. And the room disappears.
I see the second girl emerge with a shout even louder than her sister’s. And now there aretwo.Two girls. Two tiny, furious, real people.
And I’m their father. God help me.
God helpthem.
They place the first baby in my arms while the second is being cleaned and measured. I hold her like she’s made of starlight and breath—weightless and burning all at once. Her mouth is a perfect bow, when she’s not screaming. Her nose is absurdly tiny. Her eyes are barely open, but I feel like she sees me anyway.
She doesn’t cry now. Not anymore. She just stares at me. Like she’s waiting.
I don’t speak right away. My throat closes around everything I thought I’d say.Hello, sweetheart. Welcome to the world. I’m your father.
But the words sit like stones behind my ribs. She’s so small. So new. And suddenly, all I want to do is live forever so I can see everything she becomes.
Tic appears at my side with her sister, freshly swaddled, eyes still squeezed shut. He hands her to Colin with the kind of reverence I’ve only ever seen at funerals or flag ceremonies. Colin looks down like he’s seeing God for the first time.
Thalassa exhales from the bed, damp curls stuck to her temples, cheeks flushed. She’s never looked more beautiful. “Are they okay? Why isn’t anyone saying anything?”
