“Scream all you want!” my mother shouted. “Austin is flying to London. Nobody is coming to save you.”

Two months later, at 3:15 AM on a rainy Tuesday morning, Irene’s water broke.

The drive to the hospital was a blur of adrenaline, excitement, and nervous joy. I held Irene’s hand the entire way, kissing her knuckles at every red light.

“You’re going to be amazing,” I whispered as the nurses wheeled her into the delivery suite.

For twelve hours, I stayed by her side. I wiped her forehead, fed her ice chips, and told her how incredibly proud I was of her strength. She had survived so much pain, so much darkness, and now, she was bringing our light into the world.

“Push, Irene! One more big push!” the doctor encouraged.

Irene gripped my hand, bearing down with every ounce of strength she had left.

And then, the most beautiful sound in the universe filled the room.

Waaaaah! Waaaaah!

Tears streamed down my face as the doctor lifted a beautiful, healthy baby girl into the air.

“Congratulations, Dad,” the doctor smiled, laying the baby onto Irene’s chest.

Irene wept with joy, her exhausted face radiating pure, unfiltered love. She looked down at our daughter, running her finger over the baby’s soft, pink cheek.

“She’s perfect, Austin,” Irene whispered.

“What should we name her?” I asked softly, kissing my wife’s forehead.

Irene looked up at me, her eyes shining with absolute peace.