Emma’s palm is clammy when I take her hand. We’ve been here for a full day and a night. Seems like a lot longer. I’ve stepped out a few times to use the bathroom or have a bite. Emma isn’t allowed to eat. My poor darling has gone without food for twenty-four hours.

The nurse tells me it’s not a problem; she’ll be fine; it’s normal for women to go through prolonged labor these days. I know—something to do with the way the human race has evolved. Babies’ heads have become bigger to accommodate their smart brains, but women’s pelvises have remained the same. Which means that difficult childbirth is now the norm rather than the exception.

Thankfully, Emma’s had an epidural. They injected an anesthetic into her spine, just the right dose for her to be fully conscious but feel nothing below the waist. She’s exhausted, but she isn’t in pain.

I don’t think I could handle this whole experience otherwise.

“Would you like me to fetch the iPad?” I ask. “You could watch an episode of ‘Friends.’ It helped distract you earlier.”

“Thanks, mon chou, but I’m too tired for that.” Her voice is small, almost a whisper.

Someone enters the room and goes directly to the corner where the nurse is monitoring the screens. Sounds like the obstetrician’s heavy stride. I’m glad he’s come to check in on Emma again.

“Sorry to wake you up so early, Docteur,” the nurse says. “But the baby’s heart rate is too fast. Looks like the cord got wrapped around its neck.”

What? No. No, no, no.

I hold my breath.

“Not to worry, parents,” the doctor says. “This happens a lot and is rarely life-threatening. But we need to act fast. We’ll move madame Tellier next door for the C-section.”

“A C-section?” I repeat like an idiot.

Emma gives my hand a squeeze. “Phew. I thought they’d let me rot here forever.”

I try my best to sound cheerful. “You’ll be fine. You’re in excellent hands.”

“I know. This is going to be over soon.”

She withdraws her hand, and they roll her away.

This is going too fast.

“Monsieur Tellier, you can stay and wait here, if you want,” an unfamiliar voice says.

I nod. I cannot speak.

As soon as the room’s gone quiet, I begin to pray. I’m not sure God pays attention to my prayers, though. Why would he want to listen to someone who only prays in emergencies… and who isn’t even sure he exists? And if he does, I doubt he likes what he’s hearing or approves of what I’m asking him to do.

Thing is, I suspect he’s cross with me for some yet undetermined reason. I also suspect I wasn’t meant to survive that car accident two years ago, or the desperation that followed. But here I am—the blind and scarred SOB who refused to give up. I’ve adapted to my loss of sight, rebuilt my life and begun to make music again. People love my new songs. And as if that wasn’t enough, a woman like Emma loves me.

When we got married, I didn’t want her to take my name. I told her it brought bad luck. But she just laughed and said she didn’t believe in superstitions.

I should’ve insisted.

I shake my head and go back to praying.

God, let them be fine. Let them both make it. If you need a sacrifice, take my voice, my hearing, my legs, my arms, anything. And if you’re determined to reduce the number of Telliers on this planet, will you please take me? I’m ready to go any time. Just spare Emma and the baby. Please. Amen.

I concentrate all my energy on this prayer and beam it up to the stratosphere, trying to outshout millions of other prayers for a chance to be heard. Suddenly, an image fills my brain, and I break into a cold sweat. It’s a vision of the doctor cutting Emma’s belly open. I can’t see the baby in my mind’s eye. I don’t care about the baby right now. All I want is for Emma to make it through this ordeal.

Because she’s the kindest, sweetest, most beautiful human being there is. Because I love her more than words or music can convey.

Breathe, Cyril. She’ll be OK.

I’m well aware how low maternal mortality rates are in this country. Emma has excellent odds, a thousand times better than she would have had a century ago. But I’m scared shitless.

So I pray some more.

Dear Lord, if you absolutely must take one of them, then spare Emma. Please spare Emma.

I cringe, half-expecting a bolt of lightning to fry me on the spot or a huge divine fist to flatten me for what I just wished. As I said, God and I aren’t close, so I have no clue how he would react to the brutal honesty of my prayer. I don’t have the foggiest how he’d take my admitting that, if I had to choose, I’d pick my wife over anyone, including myself and our baby.

Another fear creeps into my feverish mind: What if the problem isn’t my honesty but my love—too much of it—directed at another person? Doesn’t religion tell us to only love God? Or was it God in all things?

A little voice in my head—must be one of the scattered remains of my sanity—whispers that how I feel or what I think cannot change the course of Emma’s life. She has her own destiny. And right now it’s in the hands of the obstetrician and of God—or Randomness—but definitely not in mine.

The voice calms me down a little. I take several deep breaths and try to concentrate on the faint noises coming from the hallway. But then I notice that my hands are trembling. And so are my legs. The world is slipping out of control, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

A shrill cry comes from the operating room.

It’s a baby. Our baby.

Someone walks in. I recognize the nurse’s light shuffle.

“You can touch your boy,” she says. “He’s beautiful.”

“How’s the mother?”

I can’t—I won’t—touch the baby until I hear her reply.

“She’s fine. Docteur Prouvost just finished sewing her up.”

I breathe, processing the information.

“You’re pale as death,” the nurse says. “You shouldn’t’ve worried, poor thing. This is one of the best labor wards in Paris, and Docteur Prouvost is one of our most experienced obstetricians.”

I take a deep breath. “Can I talk to her?”

“In about half an hour. We’ll transfer her to her room, and then someone will come and get you. Do you think you’ll survive the wait?”

I nod and hold out my hand. The nurse lowers the baby—we’re going to name him Leo—and my fingertips come into contact with soft, warm skin. It’s his foot. An inconceivably tiny little foot with minuscule toes and microscopic nails on them. I stroke it, wrap my index and thumb around the plump ankle, caress the sole. On an impulse, I lean forward and press my lips to it.

And that’s when I see God, right here beside me, smiling.

It’s a humbling sight.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome,” the nurse says, and takes Leo away.

A grin spreads across my face. After a while, my cheeks start to hurt, but it won’t go away, won’t shrink even by a millimeter.

Emma lives.

And I’m a dad.