I pushed against the memory of his hand on my arm, determined to push him out of our lives.

“One more,” the doctor said. “The head is delivered.”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and gave everything I had left.

A sudden, light sensation washed over me, followed immediately by a sharp, loud cry.

The sound cut through the hum of the medical machines.

The nurse placed a warm, wet, wiggling weight onto my bare chest.

“You have a beautiful, healthy baby girl,” the doctor said, smiling.

I looked down at her, my vision blurring with tears.

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

Her eyes opened slightly, dark and searching, before she let out another indignant wail.

“Amelia,” I whispered, holding her close against my skin. “Your name is Amelia.”

The nurse wrapped her in a warm, striped blanket and settled her back into my arms.

She smelled of amniotic fluid and clean cotton, a perfect, fragile miracle.

The terror of the last twelve hours began to recede, replaced by a fierce, quiet protective instinct.