The late stage of pregnancy was like a slow, profound baptism. My body grew heavier, as though carrying a precious treasure that kept growing. Each movement of the child reminded me of his existence, silently eroding the last fragments of cold resistance within me.
Her presence had shifted—from something I had to endure, into habit, and even… dependence. When she naturally offered her arm for support, my fingers rested on it without hesitation. When she massaged my swollen calves at night, I no longer resisted stiffly, but let out a sigh of relief I hadn't realized was there. Her cedar scent was no longer an invasion to resist, but the most soothing fragrance of the night, wrapping me, guarding the child within.
Hatred remained, like a reef weathered by time—still hard, but no longer sharp. It was covered now by confusion at her persistence, scrutiny of whether her change was genuine, and… a subtle loosening I feared to admit.
I began to allow myself, in those moments of care, to lower my guard. To catch a glimpse of genuine concern in her eyes. To let my lips curve faintly when she spoke clumsily to my belly.
The thunder of premature labor struck on a rainy night. Pain tore away all reason and disguise, leaving only primal fear and helplessness. When she rushed in like a guardian, her hands—once only used to sign contracts—held my face firmly, her hoarse voice commanding, "Don't be afraid. Look at me." In that moment, I clung to her like a drowning man to driftwood.
On the way to the hospital, thunder roared, pain surged like tides drowning me again and again. Her voice was the only beacon piercing the dark, guiding my breath, urging me to endure. Her grip nearly crushed my bones, yet carried a strength that steadied me.
In the delivery room's long, agonizing struggle, her pheromones were stronger and steadier than ever—like a fortress shielding me from fear. Her repeated encouragement, her hand wiping away cold sweat, the unhidden pain and resolve in her eyes—all became my last source of strength against the torment.
As consciousness blurred at the edge of pain, one truth crystallized: in that moment, I could rely only on her. Hatred, the past, the contract—all became insignificant before life and death. I entrusted myself, and the unborn child, to the woman I had once hated to the bone.
When my son's cry finally rang out, the taut string snapped, leaving me drained. Feeling her tearful, gentle kiss on my forehead, hearing her choked words—"You've suffered… thank you…"—the last reef in my heart was drowned by warm tides.
Tears slid uncontrollably, not from pain, but from a vast release—relief, emotion, and a sense of belonging, as though dust had finally settled.
I watched her and the nurse carefully place the small, red newborn in front of me. I saw in her eyes pure joy, as if she had gained the whole world. And I knew—something had changed forever.
In the days after birth, she hardly left my side. Managing work, caring for me, watching our son—she spun like an untiring wheel, dark circles under her eyes, yet smiling with a brightness and fulfillment I had never seen.
When she placed a letter of heartfelt love by my bed, when I saw the oil painting she had secretly learned to make—depicting the happiness of the three of us together—the last frozen doubt in me melted completely in that overwhelming love.
So this is what it feels like—to be cherished, clumsily yet sincerely, by someone. So this is what lies opposite hatred—not forgetting, but rebuilding a stronger fortress upon ruins.
When she knelt on one knee, not out of contract but pure love, proposing again with promises for every day to come, I looked into her fervent, reverent eyes, and answered clearly, firmly: "I do." And I knew—our true rebirth had begun.
The Emma I once saw as cold moonlight had become the sun warming the rest of my life. And the white tea within me, after ice and storm, finally unfurled its leaves beneath that sun, blooming with the most gentle, enduring fragrance.
Surrendering the past, welcoming new life—this is our final chapter, and our overture.