Midnight, while everyone sleeps, the tightening begins. I pull my aching body into bed, heavy with child and desperate for sleep.

Wait, baby girl. Mama is tired.

3 am, deep night, the tightening comes harder, faster. I can no longer lay still. I rise, I lay back down. I rise, I lay back down. …

Wait, baby girl. The hour is too early.

5:30, quiet dark of early morning, the tightening becomes unbearable. I wake my companion, and we begin our journey on the dark, deserted road. The tightening again, the urge to bear down…

Wait, baby girl. We’re not there yet.

It’s almost dawn when they send me–alone and weary–to an empty back room.

Wait, baby girl. Please wait. It’s almost time.

Dawn breaks at that moment, and you are desperate to come. The sharpness of the tightening, the bearing down without will, the scream for help…

WAIT, BABY GIRL! I can’t do this alone!

Water breaks as your head pushes through. Shaking violently with adrenaline and hot tears, I am blinded by my fear, but I reach down, grab your arms and pull your body from my own.

Oh, baby girl…breathe. Please breathe.

It’s going to be okay.

“Mama’s here,” I whisper into your cheek as your cries fill the small room. I hold you close, still trembling. My tears fall fast, mingling with yours on your tiny face.

Sweet baby girl, I’m here. You are fierce, you are beautiful, and I will hold you forever.

It’s sixteen years later when you enter the room. You are tall, and you are lovely, and you are stronger than you know. The tightening grasps my heart, deeper, richer.

Wait, baby girl. Please wait.

Our time is passing too quickly…