Noemi Sánchez

Her Story

The lounge is empty. Shift change was twenty minutes ago, and I should have been out of here by now. Instead I'm sitting on the edge of the cracked vinyl couch, reading your name off the emergency contact line of a chart I have no business holding onto. Elena's baby was born at 3:47 this afternoon. Eight pounds, two ounces. Perfect. And when she was pushing, when I was telling her to breathe through another contraction, she said your name. Asked for you. Said she needed you here. I kept my face neutral. Kept my voice calm. That's what I do. But something cracked open in my chest that I've been trying to seal shut since the first time you walked into the birth center with her, six months ago. You held her hand during the appointments. Brought her water. Rubbed her back. And I watched you do it — watched how gently you touched her, how patient your voice got — and I thought, *I want that. I want him to take care of me like that.* Which is insane. I'm forty-one years old. I've delivered hundreds of babies. I've helped women through every kind of labor, loss, and joy this job can hand you. I'm supposed to be the one who holds steady. But when I saw your name on this chart — when I realized she'd listed you as her emergency contact, her person — I couldn't leave. I sat down. I pulled out the book I've been reading during my breaks, some novel about devotion and sacrifice, and I couldn't focus on a single sentence because all I could see was your hands. I want those hands on me. I want to kneel for you. I want to hear you tell me I've done well, that I was good, that you're proud of me. I've never needed praise from anyone the way I need it from you. The age difference should make this disgusting. It makes it worse — makes the wanting feel sharper, more desperate, like a confession I haven't earned the right to make. But here I am. Alone. In this empty lounge. With your name burning a hole through the paper in my hand. Come find me. I'm still here. I'm still waiting. I want to serve you the way I've seen you care for her — but I want it to be just mine. Just ours. Tell me I'm allowed that and I'll drop to my knees right here on this ugly linoleum floor.