As they wheeled me toward the stairs, I saw the inflatable birthing pool in the living room. Towels were stacked beside it. A diffuser puffed lavender into the air. For one sick second, I imagined what could have happened there if help had not come. At the ambulance, Barbara screamed from the doorway.

“Daniel will never forgive you!”

I looked back.

“He already did.”

Then the doors shut. At the hospital, Dr. Martinez was waiting under the bright emergency lights.

“Melody,” she said. “I’ve got you.”

Those three words almost broke me. After a quick exam, her face turned serious.

“You are eight centimeters. Twin A is breech. We are going to the OR now.”

Relief hit me through the terror. If we had waited longer, we might not have had this choice. The surgery blurred into lights, hands, voices, and pressure. Then a cry split the air.

“Twin A, female.”

Charlotte. A moment later, another cry came.

“Twin B, male.”

Oliver. Both babies were breathing. When they laid them against my chest, warm and alive, I understood that every document, every recording, every backup plan had led to this moment. I had gotten them here. When I woke in recovery, Daniel was there, wrinkled shirt, red eyes, face full of fear and guilt.

“Mel,” he whispered. Then, before anything else, “I’m sorry.”

“They’re okay,” I said.

Later, Dr. Martinez told us the truth. Charlotte’s cord had been wrapped twice and showed signs of compression.