“Amelia, listen to me,” he said. His words cut through the haze of pain, calm and controlled. “We’re almost there. You’re doing great. Just breathe with me, alright? In, out. In, out.”
I tried to focus on him—on his eyes, which were steady, grounded, a world apart from the panic I felt swelling in my chest. His presence was an anchor, pulling me back from the edge where the fear and the pain threatened to drown me.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? It didn’t matter. Time blurred, the only clear markers being the contractions, the sound of Ethan’s voice, and the distant pulse of the helicopter’s engines.
The last thing I remembered before the aircraft touched down was the moment I had felt my son move for the first time. A small shift, a press against my ribs, and I knew: everything was about to change.
We landed with surgical precision, the helicopter’s skids kissing the hospital tarmac. The moment the blades stopped spinning, a team of nurses rushed toward us, their faces calm but alert, prepared for what lay ahead. Ethan was at my side, never leaving my hand, guiding me through the transfer with the same quiet authority he had shown all night.