The bright white light of the delivery room shone directly into my eyes, blurring everything. I tried to squint, trying to find a foothold in the chaos of pain. But then, as my vision gradually cleared, a familiar figure appeared. The man in a white blouse, wearing a mask, his eyes were calm and his hand was holding a scalpel, it was none other than him. Viet. My ex-husband.

My heart stopped beating, a feeling of shock and horror rose up to my throat. It turned out that fate could be so ironic. Six months ago, we divorced in silence. Not a single argument, not a single reproach. Just a very peaceful breakup, like a leaf falling from a branch on a windless autumn afternoon. I left, carrying with me a broken heart and an unfulfilled desire to have a child. He was infertile. That was the doctor’s final verdict, and also the main reason for the rift in our marriage. My mother, who used to be my strong support, said something that made me think: “An is still young, he shouldn’t trade his youth for someone who can’t give him a complete family.”

I used to argue with my mother. I used to say that love was enough, that we could live without children, that we would adopt. But deep down, I still longed for a child with my own blood. That longing, along with the invisible pressure from family and society, gradually became a heavy rock weighing down on our marriage. Viet, a quiet, reserved man, always silently endured everything. He never complained, never blamed me. But I knew he was in just as much pain. Every time I saw the neighborhood children playing, I saw his eyes droop. Every time my mother called to ask about children, he avoided her.

We divorced after a nameless argument, an argument that stemmed from our mutual helplessness. I said bitter words, blaming him. He just kept silent, not arguing. On the last night, we lay next to each other, not saying a word. There was only my sobbing, and his steady breathing. We hugged each other tightly, as if to say goodbye to all the love, the efforts, the sacrifices. The next morning, I moved out of the house. He stood at the door, not saying a word. I will never forget the look in his eyes at that time. That look contained both helplessness and pain, but also understanding. He understood why I left. And I also understood how much he had suffered.

Three months after the divorce, my life took a different turn. I became pregnant. When I held the two-line pregnancy test in my hand, I was so shocked that I couldn’t believe my eyes. I felt so confused at that moment, both happy and crying, but also confused and scared. How could this be? The doctor had said he was infertile? Was this child a miracle, or a cruel joke of fate? My mother, who had advised me to break up, was now busy trying to find a way to contact Viet again. She said: “You have to tell him. After all, he is the father of the child.” I understood. But I couldn’t. The pride of a woman who had left her husband because he was infertile, now returned with a pregnant belly, making it impossible for me to face him anymore. I decided to keep the baby, raise the child alone, and be a single mother.

And then, fate played a joke on me again.

Oh, I didn’t know you had transferred to work at this hospital. I only know that the taxi didn’t listen to me and drove straight here. The labor pains came, I didn’t have time to think anymore. The nurse pushed me into the delivery room, and when I opened my eyes, I saw you standing stunned in front of me. He was wearing a white blouse and a mask, but I still recognized those eyes. The eyes that had looked at me with so much love, now looked at me with shock and confusion. “No! I don’t want this doctor! Change to another one!”, I screamed in trembling and panic. The intense pain came, not allowing me to say anything more. I screamed, not only because of the physical pain, but also because of the resentment that had been pent up for so long. “Pull your son out for me! It hurts like hell!”.

At that moment, I didn’t think about anything else. Those words were like a strong blow to his heart. I saw his eyes stop, his hands holding the scalpel trembled slightly for a moment. He blushed. I knew he understood everything. My silence, my leaving, and the baby in my belly. Everything had an answer. At that moment, all the shock, all the anxiety disappeared. Only the extreme pain and the desire to see the baby remained. “An, calm down,” he said, his voice warm and gentle. Strangely, I felt at peace. I trusted him, trusted the hands that had cooked delicious meals for me, trusted the eyes that had looked at me with so much love.

The baby was born to my bursting cries. A healthy baby boy. He was the first to hold the baby. He looked at the baby, his eyes both surprised and sad. “Like me,” he said softly, his voice choked. I nodded, tears streaming down my face. The baby had eyes exactly like his, eyes that I had loved so much that I wanted to drown in them forever. He didn’t say a word, just silently picked up the baby and placed him in my arms. At that moment, I felt strangely peaceful. Peaceful in all the pain and fatigue. My son, a tiny creature, had bound us together once again, with an invisible thread, tighter than any promise.

The next day, he came to visit me in the hospital. He brought a bag of fruit and some milk. I looked at him, trying to smile softly. “Do you still blame me, Viet?” He shook his head slightly, his eyes on the crib where the baby was sleeping. “When you left, I blamed you. I thought you left me because you couldn’t have a child. I thought you didn’t love me enough to accept it. But now I know, you’re not wrong. You just longed for a child. It’s a mother’s instinct. I was sterile… or at least, I thought so.” Those words made me choke up. I thought he would blame me, would hate me for leaving him and hiding the child from him. But no, he understood. He understood the struggle in my heart, my intense desire to be a mother.

I used to think that after giving birth, that was it. I would be a strong single mother, raising my child alone. But it turned out that giving birth was just the beginning. The first days after giving birth were a nightmare. The baby cried all night, I was sleep deprived, tired, and stressed to the point that my milk supply was low. I was struggling, helpless, and felt terrible. At those times, the person who helped me was none other than him. He came, like a savior. He held the child, changed diapers, and lulled him to sleep. I looked at him, the quiet, helpless man of the past, now a calm, competent father. As for me, the biological mother, I was so clumsy that I cried. “An, calm down,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder, gently reassuring me. “I didn’t think you were so weak…”, I choked up. He looked at me, his eyes full of sympathy. “I’m not weak. I’ve just never been a mother before. This is my first time, and your first time too. We’ll learn together.”

During our awkward baby-sitting sessions, we began to talk more. At first, it was about the baby, about how to take care of it, about developmental milestones. Gradually, we talked about other things. About his life, about what had happened in the six months we were apart. He said that after I left, he lived in emptiness. The house was empty, the meals were cold. He moved to a new hospital, trying to bury himself in work to forget the pain. As for me, I told him about the days of being pregnant alone, about the fears, about the silent tears. The distance between us gradually filled, no longer that of an old couple, but of two friends, two companions taking care of a small creature.

My mother, seeing us getting closer, asked me a question: “If he wants to come back, will you agree?”. I did not answer. But that night, when my son slept soundly between us, I quietly looked at him, looked at him, and asked myself. Is this the second chance that God has given us? I had already left him once. This time, if I had the chance, would I still have the courage to let go? The answer was clear in my heart. I did not want to let go anymore. I realized that what I longed for was not just a child, but a family, with him and the child.

And then, he was the one who proposed first. One night, when our son was fast asleep, he looked at me, his eyes sparkling like a thousand stars. “I know, An can live without me. But… I don’t want to be an outsider anymore. I want my son to call me dad, and An to be my wife again.” His proposal surprised me, but I couldn’t hide my happiness. I laughed. “Aren’t you afraid? You left me before.” He took my hand, his eyes looking straight at me, full of sincerity. “I’m only afraid of one thing. That you will leave me again, if I can’t hold you back this time. We’ve broken up before, we’ve suffered before. I think that’s a lesson for us to appreciate each other more.”

We remarried quietly. No wedding dress, no fancy party. Just a small meal, both sets of parents, a few close friends and a cake with a picture of our son, who now knows how to call “Dad” and chirp. The party was simple but more cozy than any lavish wedding. We have gone through pain, through brokenness. And now, we are back together, not only because of love, but also because of understanding and respect. Viet once said, we don’t need to love again from the beginning, we just need to reconnect the love that has broken.

I know, the road ahead is still full of thorns. We have broken up before, and the scars are still there. But I believe, after all that has happened, we will know how to appreciate happiness more. Love is not always a fire that burns from the first meeting. Sometimes, it is a smoldering fire, quietly burning under the ashes, only needing a gentle wind to flare up brightly. That wind, to me, was the moment when I was in so much pain that I screamed: “Hurry up and pull my son out!” And Viet, my ex-husband who seemed to have been lost forever, came back again, to start over with me. This time, we were no longer alone, but had a little creature in our arms.

Thank you for not turning away that day. Thank you for still being you, the one who delivered my baby, the one who held my hand as I learned to be a mother, and now my husband once again. Everything happened as if it were destiny, an arrangement of fate, so that we realized that, no matter where we go, no matter what we do, in the end, we still belong to each other. And our little son is the proof of that never-ending love.