⇾ 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐄 𝐈'𝐌 𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐄𝐃 | 𝐏𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐌𝐜𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐈𝐈

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙁𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙮-𝙎𝙞𝙭 ➪ 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘽𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙋𝙖𝙪𝙡'𝙨 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡𝙮-𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙢 𝙋𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙘 𝙈𝙤𝙙𝙚

ꕥ December 12, 1969 ꕥ
34 weeks

"Fuck!" I said before I could stop myself, my hands clutching desperately at my stomach. "P-Paul," I stammered. "Paul, make it stop." Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked over at him with desperation in my eyes.

"Juliette, baby, I'm—."

"No, do not tell me you can't!" I said, narrowing my eyes. "Help me!"

"Okay, what do you want me to do?" he asked me.

"Owww," I said, crying out in pain as another contraction rolled over me. This was my damned life now. I was only 34 weeks, so this did mean that nothing was happening. I was in this pain for no fucking reason. I just had to sit through it for at least three more weeks! Three! "I don't know what you can do, but anything is better than just sitting there staring at me!" I shouted.

Mary sat idly by in the corner, watching us intently, looking torn between running away and staying to cry over me being in so much pain.

"Okay, this is ridiculous," Paul said finally, pushing himself to his feet. "They aren't supposed to be this bad!"

"No, no, no, they're just Braxton Hicks!" I assured him even though I wasn't entirely sure that I believed that. My sentence trailed off into more grunting as another one washed over me. I closed my eyes and dropped my head against the back of the couch.

"Is Mummy having the babies, Daddy?" My eyes opened and searched for my daughter. She had moved over to Paul and was standing right in front of him, looking nervous as ever.

"Well, I don't—," Paul began, but I caught him off.

"No," I told Mary. "I'm not having the babies. Don't listen to Daddy because he d-doesn't know what he's talking about!" The sentence ended with another annoyed groan in pain.

Christ, I better not be having these babies. We were supposed to go home tomorrow!

Mary stared at me in concern, then crawled up onto the couch. Paul seemed to hold his breath, wondering if I'd start shouting at her since I'd just refused to let him sit down next to me about twenty minutes ago. Of course, I wasn't going to do that. Actually, seeing her was quite a relief. She came and put her arms around me and I returned the favor.

"It's okay, Mummy," she said to me. I cracked a small smile, the words wrapping my heart in a warm embrace. Unfortunately, a fucking contraction ruined the moment, causing me to finally just break down into tears. I was so frustrated now. I didn't know what to bloody do anymore!

"P-Paul, can you get me a warm washcloth?" I asked finally. Paul stared at me in concern, looking so torn up as he took note of the pain I was in. He hated to see me like this. I knew he did.

ꕥ December 13, 1969 ꕥ

They lasted all day long, never stopping. At some point, they got more spread out, a little more manageable.

Paul had—rather impressively, I must admit—coaxed me to sleep soon after we had laid down, and my slumber lasted for a good few hours. I'd woken up once or twice to use the bathroom, then fallen back asleep almost immediately since the contractions seemed a lot better now and I didn't want to stick around to see if they'd pick back up again.

That being said, the night itself was calm when I was woken up by blinding pain in the middle of the night. The contractions were back, and they had been what had woken me up this time, not the urge to pee. I was used to the contractions by now, so I didn't worry about it. I told myself that everything was okay. These were just Braxton Hicks. They had to be.