Imperfect Storm

Chapter 13 Emma Wrightson.

I hang up right as the first sign of pain shoots through my stomach. I dialed Owen, and he answers on the first ring.

"Do I need to turn around?"
"Yes. Now." I reply.
"Oh god. Is it happening? Really?"
"Yes. Now Owen."

The phone goes dead. I spend the next few minutes gathering everything I think I'll need. The second burst of pain comes. I bend forward and clench my stomach. I hear the front door open. Owen stares at me. There's a look on his face I can not fathom. His eyes meet mine, and there's a pause. He blows out a quick sigh of relief.
I walk over to him and take his hand. I place it on my stomach and hold it there. He smiles. I love this moment. God, this hurts. Moment over! Owen grabs my clothes.
"You should call Hillary," I tell him when we pull out of the garage.
"I'm driving. We can call at the hospital and your mom."
I nod. We make it to the hospital. It's only eleven minutes later when I'm being told to push. Owen doesn't even have a chance to phone anyone. It happens so fast. I squeeze his hand with every push. He says nothing. Just allows me to squeeze the living hell out of his hand.
"Just a few more pushes." The doctor says while I scream in agony.
I can't even describe the next few moments. It's a blur of pain, breathing, screaming, tears, sweat, and anxiety. Oh, and pressure. Enormous pressure. I feel like a berry ready to burst.
"It's a girl!" Owen says. "Meg. We have a daughter."
I open my eyes, and the doctor is holding her up. When they lay her on my chest, I immediately touch her pink little lips and her red cheeks. Her little fingers. Owen cuts the umbilical cord. I can do nothing but stare at her. Owen sits on the chair next to the bed and pulls the blanket down around her chin so we can get a better look at her face. We count her toes. Ten perfect toes. She tries opening her eyes, and we think it's the funniest thing in the world. She yawns, and we both fall even more in love with her.
Exhaustion painted my face, the sweat dripping down it. Yet, holding our daughter, a fragile blossom in my arms, filled me with a fierce, protective love. Owen, gazing at her with wonder, echoed that feeling. "Meg," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, "she's beautiful."
We hadn't discussed names, the whirlwind of childbirth leaving that forgotten. "Emma?" I offered.
He leaned down, his kiss on her forehead the gentlest touch. "Hi, Emma," he whispered, his eyes then flickering to mine. "You have never looked more beautiful. I love you more than anything."
Despite the fatigue, pure joy warmed my chest. Witnessing Owen's instant connection with Emma solidified my belief: this fractured family could be whole.

THE CONSTANT STREAM OF VISITORS after returning home blurred into a haze of well-wishes and cooing. A month later, a knock shattered the peaceful monotony.
"I'll get it, baby," Owen said.
But the following silence felt thick and unnatural. Unease prickled my skin. I rose, Emma nestled against my chest, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
The sight that greeted me was a punch to the gut. Vanessa, Owen's ex, stood in the doorway, an odd smile plastered on her face. Beside her, Jack, her ever-present shadow.
Owen's gaze darted between me and Emma, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. Vanessa, oblivious, reached for Emma with an overenthusiastic coo. Every fibre of my being screamed in protest.
"Sorry, no," I forced out, my voice tight. "She needs changing."
Vanessa's laugh grated on my nerves. "We just got here! Besides, surely I can manage a nappy change, Meg?"
My pleading eyes locked with Owen's, a silent plea for him to intervene. He looked away.
The air crackled with tension. "Coffee anyone?" Owen offered.
The normalcy of his question felt like a betrayal. Jack, oblivious, boomed a hearty acceptance.
Vanessa's intrusive questions chipped away at my already frayed nerves. Each unwanted touch on Emma, every dismissive smirk, fueled a simmering anger. The "gift," a sleepsuit emblazoned with a patronizing message, was the final straw.
The room suffocated me. "Excuse me," I mumbled, retreating to the sanctuary of the bedroom with Emma clutched tightly.

When I emerged, what felt like an eternity later, the house was blessedly quiet. Owen stood in the doorway, his expression a mask of suppressed emotion.
"You left me with them?" he finally asked, his voice laced with accusation.
"Yes," I replied, my voice flat.
An uncomfortable silence stretched between us. Finally, I exploded. "Next time your ex waltzes in and snatches my baby, you don't offer her coffee!"
Owen flinched. "Our child, Meg," he countered, his voice tight. "We were both caught off guard."
He reached for my hand, but I pulled away. We sat on the opposite ends of the bed, a chasm of unspoken hurt widening with each passing second. Emma, blissfully unaware, slept soundly between us.
A single tear escaped Owen's eye, tracing a glistening path down his cheek. He wiped it away hastily.
"Hey," I whispered.
"I'm okay, babe," he mumbled.
But neither of us truly believed him. Not me, or Emma. The weight of the situation, the intrusion of the past, hung heavy in the air, a dark cloud threatening the fragile peace we'd so desperately hoped for.
Owen's head shook back and forth. I cupped his face, forcing him to look up. He sniffled and wiped his nose with a sleeve.
"What's going on?" I asked gently.
"Shane," he choked out, "Or Dad, if we're playing pretend. Or if he deserves that title, at least."
Confusion creased my brow. "Your dad?"
"He was..." Owen's voice hitched. "He is a monster." The word came out raw, laced with years of suppressed pain.
"Why do you say that?"
He looked up, eyes blazing. "He ruined her. Beat her down, night after night."
My stomach clenched. "Your mom? But... they seem so happy together."
Owen buried his face in his hands, a strangled sob escaping his lips.
"Every night," he whispered, voice thick with despair. "He'd come home from the bar, and it was like watching a storm roll in. He'd throw food, scream, hit her... anything to break her a little more. Mom would just stand there, trying to shield me, but..." He trailed off, the unfinished sentence hanging heavy in the air.