First goal

When I picked up the phone, I jumped in surprise. The screen lit up with the number 18—eighteen missed calls. My heart skipped a beat. A bad feeling washed over me. All the calls were from the same number. My wife's number. I immediately dialed back. The phone rang only once, then someone answered.

Illustrative image.

My wife's voice rang out, choked, broken, only managing to utter a single word, as if shouting into my ear:

- Give birth!

I was stunned. How could it happen so quickly? Just yesterday I took my wife to the doctor, and they said the pregnancy was only 36 weeks along, almost four weeks from the due date. It was a private hospital with state-of-the-art equipment and a leading expert doctor; how could they be wrong? Or... did my child not want to wait for the right day and month, but decided to come into this world in its own way?

I didn't have time to change, still wearing my soccer uniform, I sped towards the hospital. The sky darkened after a scorching day. Streetlights cast a golden glow on the puddles of rainwater left over from the afternoon. My heart pounded like a drum on a soccer field, only this time not for a goal, but for childbirth—a match without a coach or spectators, but the first and biggest match of my life as a father. Arriving, I rushed into the delivery room. My wife lay there, pale, her eyes swollen with tears.

- What kind of football game were you playing that you're only arriving now?

My wife's voice choked up, a mixture of hurt and pain. Beside her, her older sister, who had gone through three childbirths, spoke up to comfort her:

- It's still not too late, you won't give birth right away. Just stay calm, don't worry.

My wife winced, her hands occasionally tightening around the bedsheets whenever the pain intensified. She recounted that she experienced severe abdominal pain while cooking dinner. Panicked, she called me repeatedly, desperately, but no one answered. With no other options, she called a friend in the same apartment building and then asked the building's medical staff to take her to the emergency room.

I squeezed my wife's hand gently. A sharp, stinging sensation welled up in my chest. Guilt. Just because of a football match. Just because of a few hours of pursuing personal pleasure, I almost missed the most sacred moment of my life: the birth of my child. After more than an hour of continuous monitoring, the doctor examined the child, measured the vital signs, then looked at the monitor, shook his head slightly, and said:

- We have to do a C-section. The amniotic fluid is running low.

That seemingly brief sentence suddenly made the atmosphere in the room tense. My wife trembled. Although the doctor had advised her beforehand that a C-section was possible, she couldn't hide her anxiety when faced with the actual surgery. I tried to stay calm and immediately called my mother. She used to be a surgical nurse, retired a few years ago, but still remembered the names of many skilled doctors. Thanks to her connections, within minutes we found a highly skilled obstetrician. The operating room was prepared. My wife was wheeled in, lying on a stretcher, her face pale, but she still tried to look at me. I followed her to the operating room door, held her hand tightly, and whispered:

- He's here. The doctor is excellent. Everything will be alright.

The operating room door slowly closed, leaving me standing outside with a whirlwind of thoughts swirling in my head. My sister-in-law and I sat silently on the waiting bench. The night sky gradually covered with a thin layer of clouds, then the rain began to fall, quietly and steadily. The first raindrops of the season pattered on the hospital eaves, the sound echoing in my heart like a prelude to something sacred about to happen. An indescribable feeling arose, a mixture of anxiety, hope, and overwhelming emotion. I kept telling myself: "It's raining. Heaven is blessing us. It will be alright. Everything will be okay."

The entire fourth floor was silent. The yellow light scattered across the white tiles, casting a long shadow of me in the hallway. The clock hands ticked steadily, but each passing minute dragged on, longer than a grueling halftime on the football field. I stood up, then sat down, then stood up again. My eyes never left the door at the end of the hallway, the one that separated me from two lives facing a moment of life's ups and downs.

Then the door burst open. The nurse came out, carrying a tiny, red-faced baby in her arms, calling out loudly as she walked:

Where is the baby's father?

I sprang to my feet, my heart stopping for a moment. I rushed to the nurse's arms, taking the tiny baby that stirred slightly. A small, rosy body, eyes still closed, a tiny mouth pouting as if about to cry. Its small hands and feet weakly kicked in the air, as if searching for its first anchor. I held my child close to my chest. Tears welled up without me realizing it, a warm stream rolling down my cheeks. In that moment, I knew: I had truly become a father.

We were taken to the postpartum care room. I gently placed my baby in the incubator, its skin as thin as paper, the soft yellow light enveloping it in the first warmth of its life. I carefully fed him the first sip of breast milk I had prepared to cleanse his stomach. He opened his mouth, latched onto the bottle nipple, and sucked eagerly. I sat beside him, my eyes never leaving him. Every feature on that tiny face seemed etched in my heart long ago. He's the spitting image of his father, I thought. This nose, these ears, even the dreamy look in his eyes when he slightly opened them—everything was a miniature copy of me from long ago. I bent down, silently checking each finger, each toe, each tiny joint. A silent fear crept in, an invisible fear that perhaps any father or mother has experienced: the fear that the child might not be healthy, the fear that something might be wrong. But then I breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was fine. My baby was perfectly healthy. A feeling of gratitude welled up inside me, both relieved and sacred, as if life had just bestowed a miracle upon me.

My wife was wheeled back to her room after a few hours of observation following the surgery. Her face was still pale, but her eyes had softened, no longer showing the panic she had before. She glanced back, saw our baby lying peacefully in the incubator, and tears immediately welled up in her eyes.

"How is the baby, dear?" my wife whispered, her voice hoarse with exhaustion.

"The baby's fine. Handsome like his father," I tried to joke, hiding the emotions still welling up inside me.

My wife looked at our child, then smiled softly. It was the first smile of a mother after the agonizing pain of childbirth, weary, weak, yet strangely radiant. I stood beside them, silently watching them. The small room, the warm yellow light, the low hum of the air conditioner—everything seemed to shrink into a single world: our world. A family. A love. And a life that had just begun. Yet amidst that happiness, there was a lingering, gnawing silence. My father, the boy's grandfather, was gone. Nearly two months ago, he passed away after a long battle with illness, never to live to hold his grandson in his arms. Just thinking about it, my throat tightened. I whispered softly, "Dad, your grandson has been born: fair-skinned, healthy, and so much like you. Up there, can you see him?"

In the early days, both my wife and I were caught up in the whirlwind of caring for our baby. He was strangely "fussy": he'd cry as soon as we put him down, and only stop when we picked him up. It was as if he measured our love by keeping us busy all night. Despite the exhaustion, every moment I held him in my arms, I silently thanked that both of us were safe and sound, and somewhere, I was sure my father was smiling too. I learned to doze off standing up, to snatch quick naps during those rare, brief moments. But strangely, despite my utter exhaustion, I never got angry or lost my temper. On the contrary, I always felt a strange sense of peace, as if he were quietly teaching me how to grow up, teaching me to become a real man.

That World Cup season, I watched every single match, from Argentina's shocking defeat to Saudi Arabia in the opening game to the breathtaking final, when Messi lifted the prestigious World Cup trophy for the first time. Who enabled me to follow every single moment? My son kept me awake all night. Holding him in my arms, my eyes followed every play, and I thought to myself, "I wonder if he'll be as passionate about football as his dad?" Maybe he'll become a footballer, or a dedicated doctor. Or simply, he'll be a kind man, loving and caring for his family, just like his grandfather taught me.

"That was my 'unexpected goal.' But I understand that to win the long battle of life, I need to play with all my heart, with all my patience, love, and sacrifice. And I am ready."

Short stories by Le Ngoc Son

Source: https://baobacgiang.vn/ban-thang-dau-doi-postid419561.bbg