Another contraction hit.
I pushed through tears, thinking: I deserve this. I hid the truth from him.
Then Ethan’s voice suddenly softened.
“Chloe… listen to me. Don’t tense up. I’m here.”
I froze.
How long had it been since he last said those words to me?
“I… I didn’t want you to know,” I sobbed.
Ethan didn’t answer right away.
“One more push!” he urged urgently. “You can’t pass out!”
And then… the baby cried.
“A boy! Three kilograms!”
I burst into tears.
Ethan cut the umbilical cord. His hands were visibly shaking. He didn’t cry—but his face looked as if it had cracked open.
Two days later, I lay in the postpartum ward. My son slept in a clear plastic crib, tiny and red, like a fragile little bundle.
That night, the door quietly opened.
Ethan walked in. No doctor’s coat. Just a gray T-shirt and jeans.
He stood a distance away from the crib, as if afraid he didn’t have the right to come closer.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“I came… to see my son.”
He bent down to look at the baby. His eyes softened completely.
“He looks like you.”
I smiled bitterly.
“That’s good.”
Ethan looked at me for a long time.
“Chloe… I want to acknowledge him. I want to be his father.”
My heart tightened painfully.