Mama! Mama! The baby is coming!" Anny cried, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and wonder. She gripped the doorframe, her knuckles pale and her breath short as another wave of pain rolled through her.
Arit turned sharply, her eyes widening before softening with understanding. She hurried to Anny's side, her hands steady but her heart aching. This was the moment they had prayed for, feared, and dreamed of.
"You're strong, my child," Arit whispered, brushing damp hair from Anny's forehead. "Breathe. We'll bring her into the world together."
Anny was rushed to the nearest hospital. The car ride was a blur of contractions, soft prayers, and whispered reassurances. Upon arrival, she was immediately admitted and taken to the delivery room, her body already deep in labor.
It was her first child. The pushing seemed endless—two agonizing hours that felt like an eternity. Each scream and gasp tore from her soul. She clutched the sheets, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as if searching for strength beyond herself.
And then—it happened.
A cry. Thin and shrill at first, then stronger, louder, and beautiful.
The room held its breath as the doctor held up a tiny, wriggling body—a baby girl.
Anny , exhausted, tears spilling silently as they placed the baby briefly on her chest. Her arms trembled as she touched the soft, damp skin. At that moment, nothing else existed. Just her. Just the baby. Just love.
A smile, full of wonder, pain, and infinite joy, curved Anny's lips.
"She's perfect," she whispered.
The nurses gently took the newborn to be cleaned and wrapped, while Anny, still dazed with emotion and fatigue, was asked to rest. She closed her eyes, the sound of her daughter's cry echoing in her soul—a melody that would stay with her forever.
Three days later, Anny was discharged.
The journey home was quiet. Her mother, Arit, sat beside her in the back seat, cradling the baby with practiced care. Anny stared out the window, watching the familiar streets pass like a blur. Nothing had changed—but somehow, everything felt different.
Her body still ached. Her mind still buzzed. But inside her arms, she carried a new world.
The house smelled faintly of antiseptic and baby powder—Arit had cleaned it thoroughly while Anny was in the hospital. The small room Anny shared with her mother now held a baby cot, a bag of diapers, and a neatly folded stack of tiny clothes.
The cot sat near the window, where sunlight spilled gently onto the sheets.
Arit placed the baby inside and turned to Anny. "You need to lie down. Let me watch her."
Anny hesitated, watching the rise and fall of her daughter's chest. "Her name," she said suddenly, her voice soft. "I want to name her Peace."
Arit smiled. "Peace." She nodded slowly. "A good name for a child born from pain."
Anny blinked back tears. "She gave me peace I didn't even know I needed."
That night, sleep came in pieces. Anny woke to every cry, every sound. She fed Peace, changed her, rocked her—sometimes with confidence, other times with trembling hands and whispered prayers.
At 3:47 a.m., Peace finally fell into a deep sleep.
Anny sat beside the cot, watching her. The street outside was silent, save for the hum of a distant generator. The world felt still.
She considered the life ahead—school, work, money, love—the uncertain path of raising a child as a young mother. But right now, in this small room filled with warm air and the scent of baby breath, none of that mattered.
All that mattered was Peace.
And the quiet, growing courage in Anny's chest.