Chapter 8 - THE LABOR OF LOVE
The call came at 2:00 a.m. on a Tuesday in March,
exactly six months to the day since the ring hit the glass.
It was Elena,
Jacqueline’s lawyer,
and her voice was urgent.
"Ambrose,
she’s in labor,"
Elena said,
"there are complications,
she’s at Mount Sinai."
Ambrose didn't ask questions,
he grabbed his coat and ran out into the night,
hailing a taxi with a desperation he hadn't felt in years.
The hospital was a blur of white lights and the smell of antiseptic,
a sterile world of waiting and fear.
He found Elena in the waiting room,
her face pale,
her hands shaking.
"What’s wrong?"
Ambrose gasped,
his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Preeclampsia,"
Elena explained,
"her blood pressure spiked,
and the baby’s heart rate is dropping."
"They’re doing an emergency C-section."
Ambrose sank into a chair,
the weight of the last six months finally crushing him.
He thought of Jacqueline,
the woman who had been through so much because of him,
and now her life was on the line.
He thought of the baby,
the child who was innocent in all of this,
and he felt a sudden,
blinding love for a person he hadn't even met.
He prayed,
for the first time since he was a child,
making deals with a God he didn't believe in.
"Take everything,"
he whispered,
"take the money,
the name,
the empire,
just let them be okay."
Hours passed,
each one a grueling slow-motion crawl of anxiety.
Finally,
a doctor emerged from the double doors,
removing his mask,
his face unreadable.
"Mr. Blackwell?"
the doctor asked.
"Yes,"
Ambrose said,
standing up,
his legs feeling like water.
"They’re both stable,"
the doctor said,
a small smile appearing.
"It was a close call,
but Jacqueline is a fighter."
"And your son is in the NICU,
but he’s breathing on his own."
Ambrose felt a sob break from his chest,
a release of all the tension,
the guilt,
and the fear.
He followed the nurse to the NICU,
scrubbing his hands until they were raw,
his heart in his throat.
There he was,
in a small plastic incubator,
a tiny,
perfect human being with a shock of dark hair.
He looked like Ambrose,
but he had Jacqueline’s mouth,
the one that could be both soft and firm.
Ambrose reached through the holes in the side,
touching his son’s tiny hand with his finger.
The baby’s fingers curled around his,
a grip that was stronger than any contract he had ever signed.
"Hello,
little man,"
Ambrose whispered,
tears streaming down his face.
"I’m your father,
and I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you're okay."
He stayed there for hours,
watching the rise and fall of his son’s chest,
feeling a peace he hadn't known in his adult life.
He realized then that Jacqueline had been right all along.
May you like
This was the only thing that mattered.
The rest was just noise.
