It was my mother.
She had flown in early, hoping to surprise me and support us during labor. But the real surprise was seeing her son-in-law treating my childbirth like a frat party. Her eyes locked on him like lasers.
“Is this a hospital room or a college dorm?” she said coldly, stepping in.
My husband stammered, “I—I thought it would take a while—”
She didn’t yell. She didn’t need to. She calmly walked over, unplugged the Xbox, handed it to his stunned friend, and said, “Out. Now.”
Then she turned to my husband. “You have ten seconds to remember you’re a husband, not a 12-year-old. Or I’ll be holding your newborn while you pack your things.”
His friend vanished. My husband looked at me—tears, sweat, fear—and finally saw me. Really saw me.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed. “I’m so sorry. I messed up. I’m here. Just me. I’m not leaving your side again.”
He didn’t. He held my hand for the next fourteen hours, whispered encouragement through every contraction, and cried when our baby was born.
Moral: Childbirth isn’t a spectator sport. It’s a team effort—and the first test of parenthood is showing up where it matters most.
