The monitor beeped frantically, a chaotic rhythm that seemed to echo the storm outside the window.

Rain streaked against the glass, blurring the distant lights of the Chicago skyline.

“Almost there, Avery,” the nurse said, holding my left leg. “One more.”

I closed my eyes and gave a final, desperate push.

The pressure suddenly released, followed by a wet, sliding warmth.

For a second, the room was completely silent except for the hum of the air conditioner.

Then, a sharp, angry cry cut through the quiet.

The sound was loud, raw, and full of life.

“It is a boy,” Dr. Aris said, holding him up.

She laid him directly onto my chest, his skin warm and slick against mine.

He had a dusting of dark hair and tiny, clenched fists that beat against the air.

I wrapped my arms around him, my tears hot against his temple.

“He is healthy,” the nurse said, wiping his back with a soft white towel. “Eight pounds, two ounces.”

I looked down at his small face, his dark eyes squinting against the harsh hospital lights.

He was here, and he was breathing.