I started crying the other day just thinking that the baby is

Host: The morning light was soft — a pale gold that filtered through thin curtains, painting gentle shapes across the small living room. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving behind the faint, earthy scent of renewal. The window was slightly open, letting in the delicate sound of dripping rooftops and distant birds shaking water from their wings.

Jeeny sat curled up on the couch, wrapped in a knitted blanket, one hand resting protectively on her rounded belly. The room carried that quiet, reverent stillness that seems to exist only in the homes of those waiting for something — or someone.

Jack stood by the window, his lean frame outlined by the faint glow of morning. He was holding a mug of coffee, steam curling up like smoke from a quiet thought. His eyes — those sharp, grey, watchful eyes — were softer than usual.

Host: The air between them shimmered with unspoken wonder. It was the kind of silence that doesn’t demand words — only breath, heartbeat, and the slow passage of time.

Jeeny: “Emily Procter once said, ‘I started crying the other day just thinking that the baby is going to leave me soon. You have this relationship with this person in your belly and it’s really amazing.’” (Her voice trembled slightly, part laughter, part awe.) “I didn’t understand that quote until now.”

Jack: (turning toward her) “You mean the part about crying? Or the part about them leaving?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Both. It’s strange, Jack — you spend months building this quiet, private world together, feeling every movement, every heartbeat. And then, one day, that world just… ends. You lose the intimacy you’ve lived with. It’s beautiful — and it’s unbearable.”

Host: Her eyes glistened as she spoke, catching the morning light. Jack set his mug down, his face a study of conflicted tenderness — the kind of emotion that men like him rarely allow themselves to show.

Jack: “That’s the paradox of creation, isn’t it? Everything you make — art, music, life — eventually leaves you. You build it, you love it, and then it walks away to become something you can’t control.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes it love? Letting it go, even though every part of you wants to hold tighter?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe love’s just a way of preparing yourself for loss.”

Host: The words hung between them, fragile and sharp as glass. The clock ticked softly in the background. A faint breeze stirred the curtains, brushing them aside like slow-moving memories.

Jeeny: “You always make it sound so bleak. Why must everything that ends be tragedy? What if letting go is part of the miracle? This baby isn’t leaving me — she’s continuing me. She’s becoming something more.”

Jack: (quietly) “You sound like my mother.”

Host: Jeeny looked up, curious. Jack rarely spoke of his mother.

Jeeny: “What did she say?”

Jack: “She used to tell me that every parent is a bridge — you don’t get to walk on it forever. You just build it so someone else can cross. I never understood it until I saw you like this — waiting, smiling, terrified, all at once.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “She was right.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, falling directly on Jeeny’s face. She closed her eyes, her hand still resting over her belly, feeling the faint flutter beneath her skin — a small rhythm, like the echo of a heartbeat playing inside a shell.

Jeeny: “Sometimes at night, I talk to her,” she said softly. “Tell her about the world she’s about to meet — the rain, the ocean, the stars. And then I start crying, because I realize she’s hearing everything through me. My voice, my heartbeat, my fear. And soon, she’ll have to listen to her own.”

Jack: “Do you ever think she’ll remember it? The sound of you?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe not with her mind. But her soul will. I think every child carries the echo of their mother — even if they don’t know it.”

Host: Jack walked closer, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots. He crouched beside her, his eyes searching hers — searching for something beyond words, something ancient and sacred.

Jack: “And what about you? What do you carry from her?”

Jeeny: (touching her heart) “Everything. Every kick reminds me that I’m both holding her and being held by her. It’s like standing between two worlds — the one you came from and the one you’re giving.”

Jack: (softly) “You talk like a poet.”

Jeeny: “Pregnancy does that to you. You become part biology, part metaphor.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the kind of smile that cracks through years of disbelief. The light now danced gently across the floor, catching the edge of the mug, the blanket, the slow rhythm of breath.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. I used to think love was something you fell into — an accident of chemistry or chance. But watching you… it feels more like endurance. Like a quiet kind of courage.”

Jeeny: “It is courage. You spend every day loving someone you haven’t met yet. You love them enough to say goodbye before you even say hello.”

Host: Jack lowered his gaze to her belly, the shape of it round and alive, moving slightly as if responding to her words. He placed his hand there gently, hesitantly, as if touching something holy.

Jack: (barely above a whisper) “She’s real.”

Jeeny: “She’s always been real. You just needed to believe it.”

Host: The two sat in silence — no longer talking, only breathing. The morning had become brighter, filling the room with warmth that seemed to pulse with life itself.

Jack: “When she’s born,” he said finally, “everything will change.”

Jeeny: “I know. That’s what scares me.”

Jack: “And what excites you.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because change means she’s coming into her own — and I’ll get to watch her become everything she’s meant to be.”

Host: Jack leaned back against the couch, his expression unreadable — a blend of awe, fear, and something deeper.

Jack: “You’re lucky, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Lucky?”

Jack: “Yeah. You get to feel love before it’s defined. Before it’s tested, broken, or betrayed. You get to feel it pure.”

Jeeny: “And you think you can’t?”

Jack: “Maybe not like this. This… it’s too sacred. Too absolute. I’ve spent my life building walls between myself and that kind of vulnerability.”

Jeeny: (touching his hand) “Then maybe it’s time to let one of those walls fall. Start small. She’ll teach you how.”

Host: A tear slipped quietly down Jack’s cheek — not sorrowful, but soft, as if it had waited years to be allowed. He didn’t wipe it away.

Outside, the rain began again — gentle, steady, forgiving.

Jack: “She’s going to leave you one day. You know that, right?”

Jeeny: “Of course. That’s what love does — it leaves, so it can return in new forms.”

Jack: “And you’re okay with that?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said with a small laugh. “But I’ll learn to be.”

Host: The room seemed to exhale, filled now with the rhythm of the rain, the faint ticking of the clock, the quiet chorus of two hearts beating near a third.

Jack stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the blurred horizon — a world both familiar and newborn.

Jeeny whispered, almost to herself, “It’s really amazing, isn’t it?”

Jack turned slightly, his voice gentler than it had ever been.

Jack: “Yeah, Jeeny. It really is.”

Host: And there it was — that small, impossible truth suspended in the air between them: that creation, in its purest form, is both love and loss woven into one heartbeat.

The rain kept falling — slow, steady, eternal — as the light continued to grow, spilling over everything like forgiveness.