My Wife and I Waited Years to Have a Child – But When She Finally Gave Birth, She Screamed, ‘That’s Not My Baby!’

Tony and June finally have their first child after years of waiting, but when June screams and sees the baby, the delivery room erupts in chaos. One couple must negotiate love, identity, and the legacy of what we bring into parenthood as long-buried concerns come to the surface.

June was working part-time at a little coffee shop off campus when I first met her, at the age of 22. Despite working double shifts and attending night school to pursue her nursing degree, she managed to find the energy to make everyone feel heard.

People, including customers, coworkers, and even myself, unconsciously attracted toward her grin while she was exhausted, as if it were a language that only she could understand.

In order to speak with her again, I used to act as though I needed additional sugar packets. Naturally, she was aware, but she never confronted me about it.

We were inseparable by the age of 25. We moved into a tiny apartment with a balcony that could only accommodate two chairs and squeaky floors. Every third Tuesday, the water ran rust-colored, our furniture was a collection of mismatched pieces, and the entire space smelled like the bakery downstairs.

Yes, it was chaotic, but we were content.

We shared cold pizza in bed, battled over toothpaste caps, danced barefoot in the kitchen, and spent hours discussing all the things we would do when life calmed down and we had more time.

We were married in my sister’s backyard two years later. String lights, decorations from the dollar store, the cheapest wine we could find, and a playlist we created the previous evening were all part of it.

We simply wanted to be married and didn’t think we needed the commotion to show our love, so it wasn’t like we were hurrying into anything.

“Anthony,” June remarked with sparkling eyes, “I don’t want the fancy frills. I just want something that’s like us, simple and romantic. A simple celebration of our love and our lives together.”

She was barefoot in the grass, wearing a pale blue frock with flowers embroidered on it, and her hair fell over her shoulders. She was all I could have imagined in a lady. She gave me a look during our vows that I can still recall, as if the world had finally calmed down to give us our moment.

Almost from the start, we discussed having children, but there were always obstacles to overcome: June’s residence, my work, rent, schedule, etc.

We wanted them, not that we didn’t. We simply kept waiting for the “right moment.” We believed we were prepared when it eventually arrived. We believed that our delay was sufficient.

Nothing, we believed, could spoil it.

However, June screamed as she stared into our daughter’s eyes on the day of her birth.

In the kitchen, she told me, her fingers clinging to the counter’s edge as if it were the only thing holding her to the ground. I knew something wasn’t right. She opened her mouth, then shut it again. Her eyes were moist, her shoulders stiff. She didn’t conceal the tremor in her jaw.

“June?” I said, putting down my coffee. “What is it? What happened?”

She gave me the impression that she wanted to talk but wasn’t sure how.

“I’m pregnant, Tony,” she murmured, cracking mid-sentence.

There was silence for a moment. I was immobile. I was unable to even think.

Then I burst out laughing. Or perhaps shed a tear. To be honest, it seemed to be both. We fell to the ground together as though our legs had lost their ability to function as I moved forward and drew her into my arms. I felt her release a sigh she must have been holding for days as she snuggled her head under my chin.

As I brushed back her hair, I said, “Are you okay?” “I mean… how do you feel?”

She nodded and remained, remaining nestled into me.

“Terrified,” she said to herself. “But also… good. Fantastic.”

I kissed June’s forehead and reassured her that everything would be alright. “We can do this, honey.”

“I hope so.”

“You’re going to be such a great mom, bug,” I replied. “I’m serious. This is going to be one lucky kid.”

She laughed on my chest, and then all of a sudden we were laughing together—unfiltered, teary, full-bodied laughter that poured out of us in torrents.

“And it doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl, as long as the baby is happy and healthy,” I replied, embracing her even more.

She smiled softly as she glanced up at me, her eyes sparkling.

Mumbling, “Yeah, healthy,” she said.

For a little moment, June hesitated, but I could see it. I wish I had asked, but I didn’t.

Like the start of a storm, the delivery day approached slowly. Just after midnight, her water burst, and all that followed was a haze of panicked looks and hospital lights.

They informed me that the epidural hadn’t worked before taking June back, and they were working quickly. I didn’t like it, and it wasn’t the original plan. I argued in a panicked voice, but not loudly.

I had to spend time with her.

June, however, halted me. Her face was pallid as she squeezed my hand.

She murmured, “Go wait with the others,” in a voice that was thin with pain. “I don’t want you to see me like this. Just be there when it’s over.”

I recognized that look, and her grip was tight. She meant it.

I nodded and gave her a forehead kiss before letting them take her away.

I paced the corridor while I waited, as if if I wore it down sufficiently, the floor could reveal answers. My sister-in-law, Mae, her parents, and my parents were seated next to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to sit with them.

For no apparent reason, I kept looking at my phone. Every time a nurse passed by, my hands trembled. I detested being in the dark. That I wasn’t in there with her was something I detested. I made an effort to suppress my fear.

I overheard bits of dialogue coming from behind the double doors. Below that, a subdued rhythm pulsed, as if something sacred was blossoming just out of reach, and somewhere a machine beeped.

Then I heard it. The scream.

One shrill scream sliced across the corridor and struck me squarely in the chest.

The first cry of our baby.

I instantly stopped pacing. My knees gave way and I leaned against the wall, gasping for air as if I had just come up from the sea. I was so relieved that I almost burst out laughing.

Whispering, “The baby is here,” “Our baby is really here.”

And I thought everything would be alright for the first time all night.

June screamed, and I heard it.

“That’s not my baby! That’s not my baby!”

Her voice sounded different. It ripped, bared, torn from a broken center. There was silence in the corridor. Mae’s face became white as she leaped to her feet.

“Did she just say — ?”

I didn’t hold out. I was on the go already.

I pushed through the door before the nurse could react. She appeared as though she had not anticipated any of this either.

The air within was too heavy and too still. The lights were humming. June lay in bed, shivering, pallid, and drenched in perspiration. She appeared to have just witnessed something she was unable to comprehend, as evidenced by her wide, unfocused eyes.

Beside her was a nurse holding the baby. There was still the umbilical chord. Like they were both attempting to keep something from breaking apart, another nurse murmured near.

“Ma’am,” remarked one of them. “This is your baby… She’s still attached to you.”

June gave a headshake. Hot, thick tears ran down her cheeks.

She screamed, “No,” her voice catching. “You don’t understand! Tony! That’s not — that’s not mine!”

Nobody made a move. The machines also appeared to become silent.

I hurried over to hold her hand. It was slimy and frigid.

“June,” I replied, squatting next to her and attempting to look her in the eye. “I’m here. Talk to me, my love. What’s going on?”

She didn’t look at me, though. Her eyes were fixed on the infant. She appeared frightened, as though things had gone terribly wrong and she was staring at an unfamiliar person.

With my heart in my throat, I turned, terrified of what I might see but more terrified of what I may feel.

The baby’s cries had become softer. Under a soft pink blanket, her limbs twitched, her face contorted in protest, and her skin was red and flushed.

She was small—so tiny—her fists clenched tightly, her chest rising and falling with weak, rapid breaths.

She was stunning.

I whispered, “She’s perfect,” as though saying it out would ruin the moment. I looked at Dr. Lowe, who remained composed and concentrated at the foot of the bed.

I questioned, “Is she… is she healthy?”

With a kind smile, he seemed to know how someone could need that response more than anything else.

His words, “She’s perfectly healthy,” “Strong lungs, steady heartbeat. No complications. Congratulations, Dad.”

Then I felt a weight lift from my chest. It was in a single, trembling sigh that I realized how firmly I’d been holding my breath. The terror subsided for a while.

However, the expression in June’s eyes stopped me cold when I turned back to face her.

She felt no relief. She wasn’t shedding happy tears. Rather, her hands squeezed the bedsheets until her knuckles turned white, and her shoulders continued to tremble. Her eyes were filled with something I couldn’t identify, either shame or grief.

or both.

She uttered, “I thought it would be a boy,” only just loud enough to be heard.

I blinked slowly, “What?”

She gulped hard as her voice trailed off. “I thought…” “I thought it was a boy. I believed it. I felt it. I know we agreed to let it be a surprise… but we should have just had the sex revealed, Anthony.”

I said, “You never said anything,” in a softer tone than I had anticipated.

She averted her gaze in embarrassment.

“I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. But I bought little blue onesies. I bought toy cars, and I… Tony, I even picked out a name.”

I knelt next to her and continued to grasp her hand as I questioned, “Why, June? Why were you so sure?”

I noticed the true reason as she turned back to face me and our eyes locked. I didn’t see disappointment. Fear was the cause. A fear that seeped into every part of her, deep and buried.

“Because it’s easier for boys,” she replied in a broken voice. “Because I don’t want her to go through what I did. I don’t want her to be scared, Anthony. I don’t want her to feel powerless. And I sure as hell don’t want her to grow up thinking her body is a weapon, or a target.”

And I realized that right then. Our daughter was being watched by my wife. In our baby’s eyes, she could see a reflection of herself.

I grabbed her hand once more and squeezed it.

“She’s not you, June,” I answered, maintaining a steady tone despite the pain in my throat. “And you’re not who you used to be. We’ll raise her to be strong.

We’ll teach her she has power. We’ll make sure that she knows how to use it. And if anyone ever tries to hurt her… They’ll have to go through me first.”

However, I couldn’t help but wonder: what if I can’t constantly protect her? What if I also make a mistake with this?

June gave a tremulous breath that sounded like a laugh mixed with a sob. She looked into my eyes with a vulnerability I had never seen in her.

In a whisper, she asked, “Do you promise?” “Do you promise you’ll love her just as much as if she were a boy?”

Saying, “I already do,” “I’ve adored her from the moment you told me you were pregnant.”

She leaned closer me until her forehead touched my collarbone and nodded. She seemed to be using what strength she had left to hold herself together as her fingers tightened around my shirt.

I glanced to the nurse when her breathing eventually evened out.

“Can we… can we hold our baby now?”

Grinning, the nurse moved forward and held the infant in my arms. I gazed at her face, learning every wrinkle, lash flutter, and sound she made. She was light, feather-soft, and nearly surreal.

I was anchored to something I hadn’t completely comprehended until her warmth poured into my chest.

I looked at June.

“Here,” I muttered. “Meet our daughter.”

June paused. Then she grabbed for her slowly. She didn’t pull away, but her arms were still trembling. June gazed down at her as if she were gazing at a sacred object when the baby was finally in her arms.

With a murmur, “Hi, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m your mom.”

She shed a few tears and her voice broke, but she still managed to grin. Everything changed at that point.

We called her Victoria, or simply Tori.

June remarked, “Because she’s going to win,” “No matter what.”

Tori is currently six months old. If we drive more than ten minutes, she screams like she’s trying out for Broadway and giggles every time she hears June’s voice.

She has an obsession with clutching objects, notably June’s fingers, her toys, and bibs. At times, she seems to be clinging to more than just skin, as if she already knows who her anchor is.

She has no fear. She’s gorgeous, inquisitive, and noisy. She is the softened version of June’s fire.

On my way to turn on the kettle one evening, I passed the nursery. I could see through the cracked door.

With one hand resting on the railing, June stood beside the crib, swinging from side to side. With her tiny arms extended above her head as if she owned the whole bed, Tori was fast asleep.

The gentle, golden glow of the nightlight seemed to hold them in place as the room lit.

Something about the silence caused me to pause, even though I didn’t want to interrupt.

June said, “I’m sorry about that day,” just above the static on the baby monitor. “My dear, you were flawless. You are flawless. You did nothing wrong.”

Tori stirred but remained unconscious.

June went on, “I was just afraid, my darling. Not of you.” but for me. in addition to all I still had on me.”

She extended her hand and ran a finger down Tori’s cheek.

“I was often informed by my father that he would have been more proud if I had been a male.

I can’t remember how many times I heard it. When I cried, he stated it. When I received the highest grades at school, dad remarked that. He stated it when I sought for help. not to mention when I didn’t. It gave me the impression that being a girl meant not being good enough.

June moaned.

He once advised me to quit crying like a girl after I scraped my knee at school. As though I could be worse than that.

She had never told me that, and I felt the breath leave my chest.

“I didn’t want to do that to you,” she went on, “because I didn’t want my baby girl to inherit that guilt from me.

So I freaked out when they told me you were a female. I was afraid I would ruin you.

She stopped, bent down, and planted a kiss on Tori’s forehead.

“But I won’t,” she said, “I’ll be by your side in every corridor. I’ll be right there when males make you feel little or confused or that you have to shrink to be safe. You won’t ever question your sufficiency. You’ll be aware.”