Where Dragons Are Born

I went into labour nine days before I let myself give birth.

My body knew what my mind refused to admit: 

I wasn’t safe yet.

Every night the contractions started, sharp and insistent, and every night I clamped down on them with the kind of strength you only find when you’re cornered. 

Not here. 

Not now. 

Not with him in the house. 

Not while danger breathed on the other side of the wall.

I paced the hallway in the dark, fists pressed into my ribs, whispering bargains to a child not yet born.

Hold on.

Just hold on a little longer.

I’ll get us safe.

The house smelled like scented candles and fear. 

The bruises on my skin bloomed under the sleeves of my dressing gown, the kind that made the midwife raise an eyebrow while I lied about slipping in the shower. 

She asked if I felt supported at home. 

I smiled like an actress in a hostage video and said 'yes, of course.' 

Nathaniel slept in his bedroom, three years old and already too wise. He’d stopped running to me when that man raised his voice. He just bolted, hid, and waited. 

A child shouldn’t know how to hide like that.

Every morning I told myself I needed more time. 

If I could just keep the baby inside until the house was ready,

until we’d moved to the new home with more space,

until that man calmed down,

until the world stopped shaking. 

Until I felt like I could close my eyes without anyone getting hurt.

The thing about labour is it doesn’t care about your plans. 

But fear makes the body strong.

By the ninth day I was delirious, muscles trembling from holding back the inevitable. 

The midwife came to my bedside at 2am, pressed a hand to my back and said softly, “You can’t keep doing this.”

That night, in the pre-dawn quiet, something shifted. 

A clarity. 

A surrender. 

A decision.

It’s time, I whispered to my belly. If you come now, I’ll make sure you’re safe. I’ll keep you safe from the day you take your first breath until the day I take my last.

My waters broke before dawn. 

I remember saying, “I’m scared.” 

And the midwife replied, “What are you scared of? This is the most natural thing in the world.” 

She didn’t understand what I was referring to.

My mother was there. The room filled with warm light, soft towels, and the quiet hum of women who knew how to hold space. 

When they placed him on my chest, slick and perfect, he blinked up at me with the heavy, ancient eyes of someone who’d seen too much in the dark.

Westley. 

My tiny, wonderful miracle.

I held him, and the truth slid into me like a blade: You’re mine to protect now. And I am all you have.

Not the man pacing the hallway outside, who had bruised my body, terrorised my firstborn, hurt my baby in the womb.

The midwife said something gentle but I didn’t hear it. 

I didn’t get the luxury of just being a mother. 

I became a fortress.

I didn’t know then the full impact this moment would have on us all, but as that new day dawned, with my newborn curled under one arm and my firstborn tucked against the other, I made a vow:

I will not let the world hurt my children. 

Not their father. 

Not fate. 

Not fear.

And I didn’t, and I haven't.

Not then. 

Not ever.