The corridor outside the delivery room smelled like disinfectant and something else — something older, heavier.
It reminded me of fear that had been sitting around too long. The chairs were hard, plastic, and cold even through my coat.
I sat beside Jake, my sister’s husband. Our knees nearly touched, but it felt like we were sitting miles apart.
He kept rubbing his palms on his jeans, over and over, like he could wipe away whatever thoughts he was trying not to think.
“No screams… maybe things went well?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light. I offered a small smile, but it just hung in the air like a question no one wanted to answer.
“Or maybe the opposite,” he said without looking at me, his voice flat. His eyes were stuck to the floor like he was afraid to look up and see something he couldn’t handle.
I wanted to talk — about the weather, the vending machine that only gave Diet Coke, anything to break the tension.