Page 18 of The Golden Hour

“Yes, Daddy,” Honey answers, wincing as she settles down on the brand-new rocking chair.

It’s a beautiful chair, the exact one she put on her registry, with dark oak wood that matches the crib and a golden-yellow cushion that feels like heaven when she sinks into it. Her parents bought all the furniture for Daisy’s nursery.

Honey, who has been too sick and dizzy to go to stores or to be trusted with power tools, is eternally grateful.

The box for the rocking chair had been sitting in the foyer downstairs for the last two weeks since the baby shower.

She was upstairs lying in bed and trying to read when she heard the door slam shut. Mason stomped up the stairs, into the room, and gave her a flat, “Hi, Honey,” before walking right into the bathroom to shower. When he came back out, he slid right into bed without another word.

Frustration flamed inside of her as he drifted off to sleep easily. She could tell he’d had a bad day, so she didn’t want to nag him with questions about it or ask him to bring up the box from downstairs.

But he had missed her baby shower.

A party to celebrate their little girl—the life he helped create.

The life he wanted to create.

“How many kids do you want, baby?”

Honey smiled as she cuddled into Mason’s arms. They were cramped together on Mason’s bed at his parents' house, the summer before college. Both were going to the same college, albeit with different majors, but Mason was determined that they would stay together—always.

“I want four,” Honey answered with a smile. “I want all girls.”

“A bunch of little girls with your blonde hair, and your brown eyes, and your nose,” he said, pressing a kiss to the aforementioned body part.

“And your smile—” Honey said, blushing. “I want them to have your smile.”

Mason’s smile widened.

“I’ll give you whatever you want, baby. A bunch of beautiful little girls. My beautiful wife, a beautiful house…”

“A beautiful life,” Honey finished, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.

“The most beautiful life,” Mason said, rolling over and settling between her legs. His hands gently brushed her hair away from her face so he could lean down and kiss her lips. “I’m going to be a doctor, I’m going to make good money, and I’m going to give you the world. You deserve it, sweet girl.”

“I love you, Mason,” Honey said, tilting her lips up to his.

“I love you more than anything.”

The thing was, for Honey, there was no more pangs of disappointment. It was like she had been feeling the stages of grief for the entirety of her pregnancy and had finally made it to acceptance.

It’s been the same song and dance for the past nine months.

She’s sick of being alone.

She’s sick of being ignored.

She’s sick of being sick.

Honey stopped trying to get her husband’s attention, partly just to see if he notices, but also because she doesn’t have any more energy to put toward anything other than growing this baby and finishing her pregnancy.

She’s thirty-four weeks now and just wants it to be over and to hold her daughter in her hands.

She winces at the stabbing pain in her head and she presses two fingers to her temple, gently massaging the area and finding only the slightest relief. This headache started last night and has not let up.

An abrupt sharp pain and tightening in her stomach makes her gasp.

Not to mention the Braxton Hicks.