It was in the wee hours of the morning when I was forced out of my slumber by this peculiar pain in my stomach. The peculiarity however, soon became familiar.
After burying my face in the pillow, I softly cried and clinched my fists as every possible muscle in my stomach contracted. I experienced the life inside of me, twist and turn.
My efforts to let my husband get at least five hours of sleep were foiled by my muffled cries making their way to his cautious ears.
“Honey? Honey, are you okay?” I heard him say.
He switched on the Venetian glass bedside lamp, sat upright and caressed my face, wiping my tears as he did so.
“It hurts again. I…I don’t want to do this anymore” I replied.
He smiled at my foolishness, with his gaze fixed on me, while I observed his face. There were suddenly so many elements that had never existed. There were bags under his eyes. His hazel eyes were swollen and sleep deprived. He looked exhausted; exhausted of catering to my needs and cravings, reminding me to eat on time, to take my medication, to keep me from climbing the stairs. He looked tired of watching me cry and complain of one or the other health issue every single day.
Yet he smiled.
“Honey, you will be alright. It is a matter of a couple of weeks and trust me, by that time, you’ll not remember a bit of this pain. You’ll be a mother. It will be the happiest feeling in the world” he said as he ran his fingers through my hair.
My eyelids opened once again when the sun’s rays penetrated the thin curtains and fell on my dull face. I looked up. He slept, still sitting upright, with his palm right over my head.
“You’re the best father to be” I whispered, gently covered him with our blue quilt, and slept by his side again.