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Everything inside me stopped. My son was here. I waited for him to cry, but nothing happened.

For months, I had imagined that sound. I had imagined hearing my baby cry for the first time and crying right along with him. I had imagined Malik looking at me and telling me we did it. Instead, the room was filled with voices that weren’t his. I waited for another second. Then another. But still nothing. My eyes went to Malik. He was looking past the curtain again.

“Malik?”

His eyes came back to mine. He tried to fix his face, but it was too late. I had already seen the fear.

“Where is he?”

“They got him, baby.”

“Why can’t I hear him?”

“Eternity—” he started, but then I cut him off.

“Why isn’t he crying?”

My voice broke. I tried to lift my head, desperate to see beyond the curtain even though I couldn’t.

“Where’s my baby?”

Malik held tighter to my hand.

“Baby, stay still.”

“No. Why isn’t he crying?”

Nobody answered me. Tears ran into my hair as I stared at my husband.

“Malik, why isn’t my baby crying?”

For a few seconds, nobody answered me. I could hear people moving on the other side of the curtain, their voices were low but urgent. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, and that made everything worse.

I searched Malik’s face for something that would tell me what was happening, but he kept looking toward where they had taken our son.

“Malik, talk to me.”

“They are working on him, baby.”

“What are they doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then ask somebody.”

He looked toward the other side of the room.

“Can somebody tell us what the fuck is going on with our son?”

One of the doctors answered him, but I barely heard the first few words because all I could think about was the silence. My baby was supposed to be crying.

“Is he breathing?” I asked.

“Yes,” someone answered. “We’re helping him transition. Give us just a moment.”

A moment. They said it like it was nothing, but every second that passed felt longer than my entire pregnancy.

“Can I see him?” I eagerly asked.