A Muslim's Romantic Journey

Chapter 66.

Yusuf's POV

Only one word summed up the experience of watching my wife in labour.

Traumatic.

When the pain got really bad, Safia kept shouting only two things over and over. She either yelled 'Allah!' or she screamed 'Mum!' At one point, she called for Hafsa too. I was a little hurt she didn't say my name, even though she was squeezing my hand and arm hard enough to bruise it.

The delivery room was limited to two people, besides the midwife, with Safia at one time. Safia's mum, aunt Hajra and I stayed with Safia as Safia's had requested. Safia told me to sit beside her while her mum sat on the other end, encouraging Safia. At one point, I was so angered at how helpless I felt.

"I can't do this, Yusuf. I can't do this," Safia said, her lips quivering. She was sleep-deprived and had hardly any energy left.

"It's okay, Safia," I whispered, putting my head close to hers. "You're strong, you can do this. Try again." I began to recite on her, hoping it would ease the pain.

Safia's mum and midwife kept saying things but most of my focus was on Safia. That was until I heard a shrilling cry. I looked to see a baby covered in weird slime. Aunt Hajra cut the umbilical cord and the midwife placed a peg there. Then the midwife took a towel and roughly wiped it. My insides jumped at how harsh she was being with the baby. Then she practically dropped the baby onto Safia.

"Careful!" I shouted at the nurse. She just laughed.

"I've been a midwife for many years now. Believe me, your son's fine." My son?

My son.

I peered closer at the baby's face. This was my son. This was thing I had been waiting for. I just stared until another cry shortly followed. The process was repeated, but I didn't shout anything this time. If there was a bruise on the baby, I was going to sue.

The next part was sort of gross, more than before so I diverted my attention to my children. They looked identical. I noticed a little mark on the boy which the girl didn't have. That was how I was going to differentiate. They weren't supposed to be identical but they looked it. It was weird.

I put my hand forward and touched my son's hand. It was so soft. I slid my finger into his palm and his tiny hand clasped around it. I smiled down at it, completely lost in the moment. I reached over to stroke the soft cheek of my daughter. Then I carefully slid my finger through her hand too, and she too clasped her hand around it.

"Safia, look. They're holding my finger." Bending down, I gave kiss of my son's forehead. "They're so beautiful." I looked up at Safia. She was looking down at them, tears of joy tricking down her face.

"Ya Allah, thank you so much." She said, closing her eyes. "Can you lift them a little higher so I can kiss them?" She asked, trying to hold them closer than they were, if that was possible.

"I'm not so good at holding babies," I said, feeling slightly awkward. Aunt Hajra came to the rescue. I had to pull my fingers out of the babies' grips and make way for aunt Hajra. While I had a moment to myself, I quickly thanked Allah for the birth of the children and I prayed that they were healthy. The looked completely healthy but the doctors still had to check them later.

Aunt Hajra and the midwife took the babies and put them into a cot. Then the midwife helped Safia up and told her to follow her to the next room for stitches. It didn't make sense to me why she had to leave but it was what the midwife said.

"Yusuf, do you want to go with Safia or stay with the babies?" I weighed it out in my head. Stay with my gorgeous children and bond with them, or go with my wife and see her getting stitches.