On the final push, you felt it, the otherness of the baby. Then the overhead fluorescents splintered at her first cry. The scissors glowed red-hot when your husband cut the cord. He cursed, dropping them.
Your dear, stupid husband. He didn't notice how the doctor whisked her away for "evaluation" or the official-looking man skulking in the hallway, hand clutched inside his coat. But you did. You also realized that your torn egress had already knit, your legs grown strong again.
They can't have her. She was yours for nine months. She'll be yours now.
Then you noticed the scissors.
Postscript: To listen to audio of this and other stories, please download Season One of the I Saw Lightning Fall podcast here.