Maya went into labor three weeks early, on a rainy Thursday morning in March. She'd been having contractions on and off for days, but her doctor had said they were Braxton Hicks, practice contractions. But when her water broke at 6 AM, soaking through the sheets, she knew this was the real thing.
"Ethan," she gasped, shaking him awake. "It's time."
He bolted upright, instantly alert despite having worked until midnight. "Are you sure? Is it—oh my God, the bed is wet. Okay. Okay. This is happening. We need to go. Where's the hospital bag? Did we pack a hospital bag?"
"It's by the door," Maya said through gritted teeth as another contraction hit. "We packed it two weeks ago, remember?"
The drive to the hospital was a blur. Ethan ran two red lights and nearly rear-ended a truck. Linda met them there, having left work the moment Ethan called her. Maya's parents were on their way but wouldn't arrive for another two hours.
Labor was nothing like Maya had imagined. It wasn't beautiful or magical. It was painful and exhausting and terrifying. Ethan stayed by her side the entire time, letting her squeeze his hand until she thought she might break his fingers, wiping her forehead with a cool cloth, telling her she was doing great even when she screamed at him that this was all his fault.
Fourteen hours later, at 8:47 PM, their daughter was born.
"It's a girl," the doctor announced, and suddenly there was a tiny, screaming, perfect human being placed on Maya's chest.
Maya looked down at her daughter—their daughter—and felt her entire world shift. She had dark hair like Maya's, and when she briefly opened her eyes, they were the same green as Ethan's. She was so small, so fragile, so absolutely perfect.
"Hi, baby girl," Maya whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Hi, sweet girl. We're your parents. We're going to take such good care of you."
Ethan was crying too, his hand gently touching their daughter's tiny head. "She's perfect. Maya, she's absolutely perfect."
They named her Sofia Grace—Sofia after Ethan's grandmother, Grace after Maya's. She weighed six pounds, three ounces, and measured nineteen inches long. She had all ten fingers and all ten toes, and when she wrapped her tiny hand around Ethan's finger, he completely fell apart.
"I'm a dad," he kept saying, wonder in his voice. "I'm actually a dad."
The first night in the hospital was surreal. Nurses came and went, checking on Maya and Sofia, teaching them how to swaddle and burp and change diapers. Everything felt overwhelming and impossible. How were they supposed to keep this tiny human alive?
When they were finally alone, just the three of them in the quiet hospital room, Maya looked at Ethan holding Sofia and felt a surge of love so intense it almost hurt.
"We made her," she said softly. "We made this perfect little person."
"We did," Ethan agreed, his eyes never leaving Sofia's face. "And we're going to give her the best life we can. I promise you that, Maya. I promise both of you."
They brought Sofia home two days later, and reality hit hard. The baby cried constantly. Maya's body ached from delivery. Breastfeeding was painful and difficult. Neither of them had slept more than an hour at a time in days.
Linda was a godsend, helping with everything from diaper changes to laundry to cooking meals. But even with her help, Maya and Ethan were drowning.
"Why won't she stop crying?" Maya sobbed one night at 3 AM, rocking Sofia for what felt like the hundredth time. "I've fed her, changed her, burped her. What does she want?"
Ethan took Sofia from her arms. "Go to bed. I've got her. You need to sleep."
"You have work in four hours."
"I'll be fine. Go."
Maya was too exhausted to argue. She collapsed into bed and was asleep within seconds.
The weeks blurred together. Maya had to drop out of school for the semester—there was no way she could manage classes with a newborn. Ethan continued working long hours, but now he came home to a crying baby and an overwhelmed girlfriend instead of rest.
Their relationship strained under the pressure. They bickered about everything—whose turn it was to change a diaper, whether Sofia was too hot or too cold, whether they should let her cry it out or pick her up immediately. The romance that had once defined their relationship seemed like a distant memory.
One particularly bad night, after Sofia had been crying for three hours straight and nothing they did seemed to help, Ethan snapped.
"I can't do this," he said, his voice breaking. "I can't. I'm so tired, Maya. I'm so fucking tired."
"You think I'm not?" Maya shot back. "You get to leave the house. You get to go to work and talk to adults and have lunch breaks. I'm here all day, every day, with a baby who won't stop crying."
"I'm working sixty hours a week to support us!"
"And I'm working twenty-four hours a day! There's no clock-out time for me, Ethan!"
They stood there in the nursery, both exhausted, both at their breaking point, while Sofia continued to wail in her crib.
Then Linda appeared in the doorway. "Give her to me," she said firmly. "Both of you, go to your room. Close the door. I've got her."
"Mom, you have work tomorrow—"
"I said I've got her. Go."
They went, too tired to argue. In their room, with the door closed and Sofia's cries muffled, they collapsed onto the bed.
"I'm sorry," Ethan said after a long moment. "I didn't mean that. I can do this. I want to do this."
"I'm sorry too," Maya whispered. "I know you're working so hard. I know you're exhausted. I just... I feel like I'm failing at this. At being a mom."
"You're not failing. You're amazing. Sofia is lucky to have you."
"We're both lucky to have you," Maya said, curling into his side.
They fell asleep like that, fully clothed, holding each other, while Linda walked Sofia around the house, singing softly in Spanish.