Scarlett takes a shallow inhale and cries out through clenched teeth.

“Okay, Dad, I’m going to ask you to hold right here, thank you.” One of the nurses instructs Matty to hold Scarlett’s foot.

For someone as open as myself, I find it surprisingly disturbing how many people are currently gathered around my sister’s vagina.

Mom is asked to hold Scarlett’s other foot.

I am not assigned a task.

“Okay, Scarlett,” the doctor says, “it’s time to push. I’m going to tell you when. I’m going to say ‘Push,’ and then I’m going to count to ten, okay? And you’re going to push for that ten count, okay?”

“I can’t,” Scarlett whimpers. “I can’t.”

“You can do it, Scarlett. Ready? Big breath in. Okay . . . push! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Okay, good, good.”

Nope. Nope nope nope.

I don’t know where to look.

“Okay, you’re doing great. I need you to take a deep breath, and then I’m going to need you to push again, okay?”

I expect the baby to come every time she pushes, but she keeps doing it, and nothing seems to be happening. The moment keeps repeating and repeating. The only things changing are the song that’s playing and how loudly Scarlett moans over it.

“Okay, good, good, Scarlett. So, I’m not going to cut you; I’m going to let you tear naturally. The more the baby’s head stretches it out, the better, okay?”

I’ve never heard a worse sentence in my life.

I look at Mom, but she won’t meet my eye.

“I can’t do it anymore,” Scarlett says. “I can’t. Please.”

She looks so exhausted.

“You can. You can do it.”

The more time passes, the more the tonic sick fades from me, and everything becomes more terrifying. More exciting. More real.

“Almost, almost. One more, Scarlett.”

She lets out a scream so ear-piercing, so bloodcurdling.

And then . . .

“Here she is.”

Scarlett gasps.

The nurse places the baby on her chest. There’s a moment of silence. Even the baby’s quiet. Scarlett looks down at her, wide-eyed.

“Hi,” Scarlett says.

The nurse wipes the baby’s face, suctions out her mouth and nose.

Still no crying.

“She’s quiet,” Scarlett says. “Is she all right?”

The baby gives a little squeak, then starts to wail.

“Oh, my God,” Matty says, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Oh, my God.”

Scarlett looks up at me. Her expression is pure awe.

“She’s so precious,” Mom says.

“Good job, Scarlett,” one of the nurses says.

She offers Matty the scissors to cut the cord. He does it.

Another nurse puts a little hat on the baby’s head.

I forgot. I’m so used to being reminded how ugly a place the world can be, I forgot it could be beautiful, too.

—

Later, Matty and I take a trip down to the cafeteria, just the two of us. I’m not sure if this is the right time to apologize as we sit across from each other in awkward silence, sharing dry sandwiches and vending machine snacks. But I’m feeling gooey and optimistic, so I decide to go for it.