The pain began as a slow, deep ache, curling low in her belly like a warning.
Leilei stirred in the darkness of her small, rented apartment, pressing a hand against the swell of her stomach. She thought it might pass — it had before — but within minutes, the ache sharpened into something unmistakable.
Her breath caught.
So, this was it.
For a moment, she simply sat there on the edge of her bed, hands trembling. She had read about childbirth, heard women talk about it in hushed voices that carried a mix of fear and pride. But nothing — nothing — could have prepared her for the reality of her body straining under something primal, inevitable.
She reached for her phone with unsteady fingers and dialed the only number she could think of.
"Leilei?" Mei's voice was thick with sleep.
"It's… it's starting," Leilei whispered, biting back a groan as another contraction rippled through her.
There was the sound of sheets thrown aside, hurried footsteps, the rustle of fabric. "Stay where you are. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Don't you dare try to get to the hospital alone."
And then the line went dead.
The snow outside was falling heavier than before, clinging to the city streets like an unshakable layer of frost. When Mei arrived, her hair and shoulders were dusted in white, her breath clouding in the cold air as she burst through the door.
"You look pale," Mei said, crossing the room and slipping an arm around her. "Let's go. Now."
Leilei tried to protest, muttering that she could walk, but Mei wasn't having it. "The last thing you're doing tonight is pretending you're fine. Let me take care of this."
The smell of antiseptic stung her nose as they stepped into the glaring white of the maternity ward. Nurses moved quickly around her, guiding her to a small labor room.
"In through your nose, out through your mouth," one of them instructed, her voice calm but firm. "That's it. Good girl."
Leilei gripped the rails of the bed as another contraction bent her double. Mei's hand was there, warm and steady, grounding her.
"You've handled worse," Mei murmured. "Remember that time you fell off your bike when we were twelve, broke your arm, and still refused to cry?"
Leilei managed a strained laugh, sweat dampening her forehead. "This… isn't the same."
Hours blurred together into an exhausting rhythm of pain and breath. The doctor checked her periodically, announcing the centimeters like they were progress on a long, cruel journey.
"Four… six… eight…"
With each update, she clung tighter to Mei's hand.
Finally, the doctor's voice changed. "Ten centimeters. Time to push."
The delivery room was colder, its lights sharper, like the world itself was leaning in to watch this moment.
"Push when I tell you," the nurse said.
Leilei did, her body straining, her breath ragged. With each push, she felt as if her bones were being pried apart. Somewhere in the haze, she heard Mei's voice, steady and encouraging, but the world had narrowed to a tunnel of pain and willpower.
Then, suddenly — a cry.
High-pitched. Fragile. Alive.
Her head fell back against the pillow as tears slid down her cheeks. She barely noticed when the nurse placed the tiny, warm bundle against her chest.
She looked down.
The baby's skin was soft and flushed, the eyes tightly shut, the mouth opening in little cries of protest. The weight in her arms was strange yet familiar, as though she had been waiting for this presence all her life without knowing it.
The room was dim now, the only light coming from the lamp by her bed. Mei had dozed off in the corner chair, arms crossed, her breathing slow and steady.
Leilei couldn't sleep. She sat propped against her pillows, staring at the small crib beside her bed.
The baby's fingers were impossibly small, curling and uncurling as he dreamed. When she reached down, one of those tiny hands latched onto her finger, holding tight.
Something in her chest squeezed so hard it almost hurt.
She thought of all the things that had led her here.
Her mother's funeral — the way her father had stood stiffly at the front, not a tear in his eyes. The day he brought home the woman who would replace her mother in name but never in truth. The whispers at school, the cold looks from her stepmother, the slow, deliberate erosion of her place in the Jin family until she was little more than a shadow in her own home.
She thought of Wang Shen — of his warm smile in the beginning, the way she'd trusted him, the hope she'd carried that he could be her safe place in a world that had already taken so much. She thought of the day she'd told him she was pregnant and the way his face had changed, his denial swift and final, leaving her standing there with nothing but her shame.
And now… this.
She ran her thumb gently across the baby's knuckles.
"What kind of life will I give you?" she whispered.
Her voice trembled, but not just from exhaustion.
It was an honest question — one she didn't yet know how to answer. She had no family worth leaning on. No money to speak of. No protection from the people who would rather see her fail than rise.
The world outside that hospital room was not kind, and she had learned that lesson too well.
But as the baby's grip on her finger tightened, she felt something else stir inside her — something she hadn't felt in years.
Resolve.
She didn't know how she would do it, only that she would. That she had to. For him.
She leaned down, pressing her lips to his soft forehead.
"We're going to survive," she murmured. "And when the time comes, I'll make sure the people who left us with nothing regret it."
It wasn't a promise to herself. It was a promise to him.
In the quiet that followed, she finally closed her eyes, one hand resting on the crib beside her. She knew this was only the beginning — of struggle, of hardship, of long nights and weary mornings. But she also knew she wasn't the same girl who had been cast aside.
Now, she was a mother.
And that changed everything.