The meeting runs overtime. While our investor drones on about the real estate market, I check my watch. It’s almost eight. My phone vibrates on the tabletop. I glance at the screen. It’s a message from Quincy.

Call Rhett.

Something’s up. Being in a meeting, I’d ignored Rhett’s earlier call, but both my bodyguards won’t be trying to reach me if it’s not important. Excusing myself, I leave Michael to chair the meeting and make the call in the hallway.

Rhett’s voice is strained. “Valentina’s on her way to the Broadacres Clinic.”

Every sinew in my body is a string about to snap. “What happened?”

“Her water broke.”

I go cold. I clench the phone so hard my fingers hurt. “Hold on.” I shake like a puppy in a storm. My leg is dead weight dragging behind my body as I hurry back into the meeting room and whisper my emergency in Michael’s ear.

“Go,” he says, grabbing my shoulder, “and let us know.” His eyes are laced with concern as they follow me out of the room.

In the hallway, I text Quincy, telling him to bring the car around, and revert back to Rhett’s call.

Speaking as I walk, I ask, “Where are you?”

“At the house. I’m waiting for Kris to arrive to stay with Charlie. As soon as she gets here, I’ll go to the hospital.”

“How did this happen? Did she lift something heavy?” Dear God, did she…? “Did she fall?” I should’ve been there, dammit. Maybe she tried to clean under the bed again or carry the laundry basket downstairs.

“I don’t know.” Rhett sounds lost. Frightened. “Magda arrived, I went for a shower, and the next thing I knew, Valentina’s in labor.”

“Wait.” Magda arrived? My hackles grow ten inches long. “What did Magda want?”

“I don’t know. I assumed it was a social visit.”

It doesn’t add up. I’m in the lobby, scanning the street for Quincy. “Did you see her?”

“No. I only opened the gate. Valentina met her at the door. I went for a shower to give them privacy.”

“Is she still there?”

“She left before Valentina’s water broke.”

Spotting the Jaguar pulling up to the curb, I race for the passenger side. “Good.” I don’t want Magda there when I’m not home. I get inside and cover the phone with a hand. “Broadacres Clinic,” I say to Quincy. “Hurry. Valentina’s having the baby.”

Quincy pales. He puts the car in gear and takes off with screeching tires.

“I’m on my way,” I say. “We’ll be there in twenty.”

Luckily, at this hour, there’s little traffic. We take the quieter roads and make it to the clinic in just under my predicted time.

Quincy drops me off at the front entrance. “Go. I’ll park the car.”

As a short month ago, I rushed to the reception desk, but this time I ask for my wife. As a month ago, the receptionist tells me to stay put. A doctor is on his way to meet me. I turn to stone. My organs transform into lead. I haven’t been directed to a lounge, but it’s the same.

A young man in a white coat approaches me. He doesn’t waste time with a greeting.

“Mr. Louw, your wife is in labor.”

I’m like a lion ready to pounce. I want to be with my woman. “I know. Take me to her.”

“Shortly.” His tone is assertive. “First, I need to bring you up to speed.” He turns and starts walking, not looking to see if I’m following.

When we enter a small visitor’s room, everything inside of me turns heavy. My stomach is a ball of granite. My chest cavity is filled with rocks.

He closes the door and turns to me. “Your wife has severe preeclampsia as a result of hypertension. The only way to prevent further risks is for the baby to be delivered immediately, but we’re battling to stabilize her blood pressure. We’re administering magnesium sulfate intravenously. If her body doesn’t react to the magnesium, she may develop eclampsia. In other words, she may have seizures. We’ve already explained the condition and possible consequences to her. Before you go into the delivery room, we need to do the same.” He takes a breath and plows forward. “There’s a chance she may not survive the birth.”

My legs turn to stone pillars. My fault. My doing. “How big a chance?”

“Right now, I’d say fifty-fifty, but it depends on how she reacts to the medication.”

My first irrational reaction is anger. “Our private doctor examined her every two weeks. Why didn’t he pick this up?”

“Preeclampsia often only starts at the onset of labor.”

“She wasn’t due for another two months. What went wrong?”

I’m screaming at nature, at God, and at the day I replaced her birth control pills with placebo ones. If I can find what triggered the untimely contractions, maybe I can go back in time and change it. Maybe I can find the mistake and flog myself to reverse this process, to take her back to before her water broke. Or maybe I simply need to punish myself for not carrying that laundry basket for her. If I flog my back to bloody strips for letting her bend down and clean under the bed, maybe God will forgive me and spare her life.

“It’s hard to say,” the doctor says. “A physical shock could’ve triggered the birth, emotional trauma, illness… there are many factors. What matters now is that you support her.” He grabs my shoulder. “You have to be strong for her, Mr. Louw. It’s what she needs most.”

I haven’t realized that big, fat, slobbering tears are streaming over my face until he hands me a tissue from a box strategically placed on the table. If she dies… No, no, no. I can’t face it.

“Ready?” The doctor gives my shoulder a squeeze. “We should go.”

Another minute later, I’m showering and scrubbing in a change room, donning the scrubs a nurse put out for me. My chest is so tight it’s difficult to breathe. The beat of my heart is like the slap of a hammer on a block of marble, chipping away at the corners and edges, carving deep grooves into the memories of my moments with Valentina.

Please, God, save her.

I’ll give my life, instead. Don’t make her pay for my mistakes. Don’t let her pay the ultimate price for my selfish lust and hardheaded will to keep her. Save her and I swear I’ll make this right. I’ll take a vow on my knees to undo every wrongdoing, every self-serving sin I committed against her. Even if it kills me, I’ll set her free.

I’ll let her go.

Fuck, that thought cuts crisscrossed lashes into my heart. Retribution is a bitch, and I deserve every bit of it.

“Let’s go, Mr. Louw.”

The nurse leads me down a long hallway with too bright lights. It’s like walking down a tunnel toward the end. There’s mercy in life and peace in death. I don’t want her to have peace yet, not before she’s lived the full and happy life she deserves. I want her to grow old and see her grandchildren married. I want her to have whatever she wants. I want her to have the mercy.

The woman in the white uniform holds a door and motions for me to enter. My world crashes to pieces before those pieces are reconstructed to form the picture facing me. My wife lies on a bed, straining with all her might. Her face is as white as pottery clay, and her slender legs are shaking in an unnatural way, as if she’s having a fit. She’s trying to give life to the baby I put in her womb, and suddenly her frail limbs look too vulnerable for the task. Her hair is plastered to her brow, and her skin shiny with perspiration, but the set of her mouth is determined. Strong.

Jerking from my immobile state of shock, I rush to her side and take her hand. The stump that used to be her thumb is another reminder of who I am, one more piece I took away from her.

“You can do it, beautiful.”

What lies in front of me is a broken creature, an angel with torn wings and pieces of her soul and body missing. Despite the injuries, she still fights to fly. I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss her fingers. Her skin is cold.

“Please, Valentina.” I beg for forgiveness. I beg for her to fight harder and not to leave me. “Fight,” I whisper.

For all her brave efforts, things are going wrong. The nurses are tense, and the doctor’s instructions are strained.

“The baby’s not descending,” the obstetrician says.

Valentina wails when he pushes a forearm on top of her abdomen and works it down. I want to tear the motherfucker’s limbs apart. I want to rip the cause of her pain away and crush his skull against the wall. It’s only sheer willpower that prevents me from stabbing him with the scalpel. My anger is directed at the wrong person. The root of all this agony is standing next to the bed, clutching her hand.

“Emergency caesarean,” the doctor declares with a new note of urgency.

One of the nurses lays a hand on my arm. “Please move aside, sir.”

I jerk free. “I’m not leaving her.”

“Mr. Louw,” the doctor’s voice is stern, “for the sake of your wife and child’s lives, leave. We don’t have time.”

Grabbing her face, I kiss her like I may never kiss her again. There’s too much to say, but no time, because orders are being called, and Valentina is pulled from my arms onto a gurney. I strain to hold back when they take her. Walking next to her, I keep one hand on her stomach and grip her fingers in the other.

I press her palm against my mouth, stifling the emotions that won’t let me speak, because I have to say this.

“I love you.” Each word is broken. Each word is meant. Each word is beautiful in its own, ugly, wrong way.

We approach the operating wing doors.

“You can wait in the visitor’s area, Mr. Louw.”

“Wait.” Valentina grips my wrist. “What’s his name?”

“Connor,” I say, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. “His name is Connor.”

And then she’s gone.

The doors to the operating wing swing shut, and I stand alone in the long hallway with the bright lights.

* * *

Tearing out of the hospital clothes, I pace and pray, repeating my vow. I feel like dying. Is this punishment for my sins?

Rhett and Quincy arrive. They’re here more for Valentina than me, and I can’t blame them. She has that effect on people.

“How’s Charlie holding up?” I ask Rhett.

“He’s fine. Kris is cooking dinner. You don’t have to worry about him.”

“Val?” Quincy looks as if he fears my answer, but couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. I give them a brief explanation of the situation.

“Fuck.” Quincy clenches his hands together and flops down in the nearest chair.

“Coffee?” Rhett asks.

Sensing he needs to keep busy, I agree.

Armed with dark, bitter coffee, we nurture our fears, thoughts, and blame as we wait. When I can’t stand it, any longer, I limp up and down the hallway. It’s taking too long.

I’ve lost count of time when the door at the end of the hall opens and a doctor exits. Quincy and Rhett get to their feet. They stare at the doctor as if he’s grown horns. With sure steps, he walks over, stopping short of me. His look is direct and factual, void of emotion. Standing––praying, hoping, despairing––I await the news. The stones are grinding on each other in my chest. Every breath I take hurts.

He looks at the three of us. “Mr. Louw?”

“That’s me.”

“It’s a boy.”