09/02/2026
The rain tapped gently against the hospital window as Amaraa sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on the high, taut curve of her belly. At thirty-eight weeks, every breath felt borrowed, every movement a negotiation with the small life pressing insistently against her ribs.
She had come alone. Chidi, her husband, was three states away on an emergency work trip, promising he’d be back before the first contraction. She believed him the way people believe in sunrise—certain, even when clouds hide it.
The midwife, a kind woman named Ngozii with silver streaks in her braids, checked the monitor again. “Heartbeat strong,” she said, smiling. “Your girl is ready when you are.”
Amaraa laughed softly, though tears pricked her eyes. “She’s been bossy since week twelve. Kicking during sermons, elbowing when I try to sleep. I think she’s already running the house.”
Ngozii chuckled. “They come knowing their minds. You’ll see.”
Outside, the city hummed—okadas weaving through traffic, vendors calling, life refusing to pause even while hers tilted on the edge of forever. Amaraa closed her eyes and pictured the tiny face she’d meet soon: Chidi’s wide forehead, her own full lips, maybe a dimple no one could predict. She whispered to the baby, “We’ve waited long enough, eh? Let’s do this.”
A sharp twinge bloomed low in her back, then tightened into something undeniable. Amaraa exhaled slowly, counting. One. Two. Three.
Ngozii looked up, eyes bright. “That’s it. Time to call your people.”
Amaraa nodded, gripping the bedsheet. Fear and wonder braided together inside her chest. Somewhere in the storm of pain and possibility, she felt it clearly: she was not alone. Her daughter was already teaching her courage.
The next breath carried the beginning.
