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“It’s okay, ma’am,” he said. “My wife couldn’t have kids. Let me help.”
He didn’t rush me. He didn’t panic. He held my hand through every contraction, talked to me about breathing, told me I was doing great even when I felt like I was breaking apart. When we reached the hospital, he helped the nurses get me inside and waited until they took over.
When I woke up hours later, exhausted and aching, there were flowers by my bed. A simple note sat beside them: Get well soon, and congratulations.
I cried harder than I had in months.
The day I was discharged, he came back. He said he just wanted to make sure we got home safe. He carried my baby like she was made of glass, installed the car seat with careful precision, and somehow noticed my fridge was empty. Before leaving, he stocked it.
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It’s been three years.
He still visits every weekend. He teaches my daughter how to ride her bike. He cheers the loudest when she doesn’t fall. He calls her sunshine.
He didn’t save my life that night.
But he stayed. And sometimes, that’s everything.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
