Then, there it was, a pitchy yelp, followed by a flood of tears as my body released everything I’d held in since my water broke. The rest came in a blur: Her little bruised face was brought onto my shoulder for a split second before she was whisked away; then, another cry, and a laugh when her sister apparently urinated all over the table. And suddenly Nick was pulled away to accompany our daughters to the neonatal unit, and I was left being stitched up by two doctors who chatted casually, calmly, with each other and with me about what a surprise this all was. Whatever muscles I could still feel, I clenched, wondering how my children’s little lungs were working, whether their hearts were strong, whether they or Nick needed me. I found out later there had been twenty people in the delivery room that I couldn’t see, one full team for each baby, ready for the worst.

When the last stitch was done, Brenda took me into recovery, where I waited in agony for Nick to come back to me. He finally did after about fifteen minutes, glowing with glee and adrenaline.

“That Baby A is a cracker,” he said, leaning down and giving me an enthusiastic kiss. “Tiny as a doll, but she ripped out her feeding tube two seconds after they got it in. We’re in trouble.”

I made as if to sit up, but Brenda glared at me, so I stayed put. “And she’s okay?” I asked.

“She’s perfect,” Nick crowed. “They both are. Baby B needs a bit of oxygen, but they’re not worried. They’re feisty and wrinkly and a bit red, and Baby A is bruised from your pelvis, but it’s already started to come down. I’ve taken loads of photos already.” He sat down hard. “They’re real,” he said, reaching out and taking my hand. “They’re here. They’re wonderful, Bex.”

I burst into tears. “I thought I’d messed it all up again,” I sobbed.

Nick scooted toward me and brushed the hair off my forehead. “You never messed up anything,” he said. “And you grew two strong little girls. Maybe you also made them nosy, like their mother, and they decided they were too bored to stay in there. But they’re fighters, and I’m so proud of them. And of you.”

“I need to see them,” I said. “And not in a picture. I don’t think I’ll feel okay until I see them with my own eyes.”

I could swear I heard Brenda, her back to me, sniffle. “It so happens,” she interjected, “that there’s a shortcut to the elevator that passes through the neonatal unit. That might be the most, er, private way to get you back to your suite.”

Half an hour later, Brenda was steering me into the NICU, where I heard a disembodied array of beeping until I was parked neatly between two incubators.

“Bex,” I heard Nick say. “Meet your daughters.”

I turned my head to one side, then the other, to see two pink babies in pink knit caps lying snugly on their backs, with IVs and ID bracelets and narrow feeding tubes and any number of other alarming-looking things connecting them to their monitors. But the beeps were steady. The nurses were calm. And the girls had matching scowls on their faces as they scrunched their eyes closed, like they were desperate for a nap and very annoyed by all the fuss.