THE ARRIVAL

She arrived early. And right on time

She was born the first of two children, a month before she was expected—but really, when does anyone arrive on time to their own birth? The doctors made their predictions, asking very scientific-sounding questions, scribbling answers into forms as though decoding some ancient riddle.

Then came the plastic wheel. The colorful one. Spun like a child’s toy and handed down like prophecy. A date was declared—exactly 38 weeks from some other probably-incorrect date—and suddenly calendars were marked, baby showers planned, hopes pinned to a number that meant nothing at all.

The baby, apparently uninterested in everyone else’s agenda, took her time. She tangled herself creatively on the way out, wrapping her little limbs around the journey as if to say, you may proceed, but on my terms.

If it weren’t for the endorphins, the mother might have panicked. But instead, there was peace. A knowing. A quiet, steady trust in the process—their process.

She arrived at dawn, just as the first streaks of sunlight reached across the horizon, while most of the world still slept.

It was the right time.