Where My Son Met Me
Ilyass’s birth didn’t begin with a rush to the hospital or a flurry of paperwork. It began in my own home, in my own robe, with Powerade on the nightstand and quiet conviction in my heart. No machines. No strangers. Just breath, prayer, and the steady presence of my midwife and husband. In that sacred space, I met my son—and a deeper version of myself.
Moonlight Delivery by Husband: An Accidental Story
It was the first night of Ramadan. The house was quiet, the bath was warm, and I was sure we had time. But contractions came fast, and my legs wouldn’t lift me. I called my husband—not to deliver a baby, just to help me stand. Minutes later, he was catching our daughter in a towel, calm and steady, as moonlight filtered through the window. No midwife. No panic. Just faith, instinct, and love.