After years of waiting, Tony and June finally welcome their first child, but the delivery room erupts into chaos when June sees the baby and screams. As long-buried fears rise to the surface, one couple must navigate love, identity, and the legacy of what we carry into parenthood.
I met June when I was 22, while she was working part-time at a little coffee shop off campus. She was studying to become a nurse, juggling night classes and double shifts, and somehow still had the energy to make everyone feel seen.
She’d smile through exhaustion like it was a language only she spoke, and people, customers, coworkers, even I, gravitated toward it without realizing.
I used to pretend I needed more sugar packets just to talk to her again.
She knew, of course, but she never called me out on it.
By 25, we were inseparable. We moved into a shoebox apartment with creaky floors and a balcony that barely held two chairs. Our furniture was a bunch of mismatched items, the water ran rust-colored every third Tuesday, and the whole place smelled like the bakery downstairs.
It was chaotic, sure, but we were happy.
We danced in the kitchen barefoot, argued about toothpaste caps, shared cold pizza in bed, and talked for hours about everything we would do one day once life slowed down — once we had the luxury of time.
Two years later, we got married in my sister’s backyard.
It was all string lights, dollar store decorations, the cheapest wine we could find, and a playlist we made the night before.
It wasn’t that we were rushing into anything; it was the fact that we just wanted to be married, and we didn’t think we needed the fuss to prove our love.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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