I was overjoyed the day my wife, Elena, told me we were going to be parents. After months of trying, we were finally going to have a child. The excitement was palpable, and I could hardly wait to meet our little one. We spent months getting ready, decorating the nursery, and attending prenatal classes together. Everything felt perfect.
But one evening, while discussing the birth plan, Elena said something that caught me off guard and planted a seed of doubt in my heart.
“I don’t want you in the delivery room,” she said, her tone soft yet firm.
Her words hit me hard. “What? Why not?” I asked, struggling to hide my hurt and confusion.
Elena’s gaze dropped away from mine. “I just… I need to do this part on my own. Please understand.”
I didn’t understand at all. But I loved Elena deeply and trusted her completely. If this was what she needed, I would respect it. Still, something about her request felt off, and that small seed of unease began to grow.
As Elena’s due date approached, my anxiety only heightened. I tried to dismiss it, convincing myself she was just nervous about the birth. But the night before her scheduled induction, I lay awake, unable to shake the feeling that something was about to change—something significant.
The next morning, we headed to the hospital. I kissed Elena as they wheeled her away into the maternity ward, her expression a mix of excitement and anxiety. Watching her disappear behind those doors intensified my unease, but I pushed it aside.
