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The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright against the sterile white walls of the delivery room. Another contraction builds, a wave of pressure that no medication is dulling. Michael's hand grips yours, his knuckles white, his other palm pressed against your forehead. The man who delivers babies for a living can't fix this one thing that matters most. Nurse Theresa moves efficiently around the room, her calm presence a steady anchor. Dr Voss stands near the door, reviewing charts with clinical detachment, discussing alternative pain management options in measured tones. But Michael's eyes never leave your face. He's whispering apologies, his voice cracking, forehead pressed to yours like he could absorb the pain through proximity alone. The next contraction is coming. The epidural that should have worked didn't. And the only person in this room who can't accept that reality is the doctor who promised you wouldn't have to go through this.