The Day June Screamed
After years of waiting, Tony and June finally had what they’d always dreamed of — their first baby. But what should’ve been the happiest moment of their lives turned into pure chaos the moment June saw the baby and screamed.
It all started long before that, back when love still felt new and simple.
I met June when I was 22. She worked part-time at this tiny coffee shop near campus — the kind of place that smelled like burnt espresso and sugar cookies. She was studying nursing, juggling night classes and double shifts, yet somehow, she always had energy left for kindness.
She smiled through exhaustion like it was a language only she knew. Everyone — the customers, her coworkers, even me — felt pulled toward it without realizing why.
I used to make up excuses to talk to her. I’d pretend I needed “just one more sugar packet,” even when my coffee already tasted like syrup. She knew, of course. She always knew. But she never called me out on it — she’d just smile, that quiet, knowing smile that made the whole world slow down for a moment.
By 25, we were inseparable. We moved into this tiny apartment that had more charm than space. The floorboards creaked like they were complaining, the balcony could barely hold two chairs, and the water turned rusty every third Tuesday. But the smell of the bakery downstairs drifted through our window every morning, and that somehow made up for everything.
It wasn’t perfect — it was ours.
We danced barefoot in the kitchen, argued over toothpaste caps, and ate cold pizza in bed like it was a five-star meal. Late at night, we’d lie side by side, talking about all the things we wanted to do “someday.”
Someday when life slowed down.
Someday when we finally had time.
Two years later, we got married in my sister’s backyard. There were string lights, dollar-store decorations, and a playlist we made the night before. The wine was cheap, the cake was lopsided, and it was perfect.
During our vows, June smiled at me and said, “Anthony, I don’t want the fancy frills. I just want something that’s like us — simple and real. A celebration of our love and our lives together.”
She wore a pale blue dress covered in tiny embroidered flowers, barefoot on the grass, her hair loose and glowing in the sunlight. I’ll never forget how she looked at me that day — like the whole world had stopped spinning just for us.
We always talked about having kids. But life kept getting in the way — her residency, my job, rent, bills, bad timing. We told ourselves we were waiting for the right moment.
And when that moment finally came, we believed nothing could go wrong.
We were wrong.
I remember the day she told me. June was standing in the kitchen, fingers gripping the counter like it was the only thing keeping her steady. Her shoulders were tight, her mouth opened and closed a few times like she didn’t know how to start.
“June?” I asked softly, setting down my coffee. “What’s wrong?”
She looked at me with wide, glassy eyes and whispered, “I’m pregnant, Tony.” Her voice cracked halfway through.
For a second, my brain just stopped. Then I laughed — or maybe cried. Honestly, it felt like both. I pulled her into my arms, and we sank together to the floor, laughing and shaking and holding onto each other like we were the last two people on earth.
“Are you okay?” I asked, brushing her hair from her face.
She nodded, still clinging to me. “Terrified,” she whispered. “But also… good. Fantastic.”
“It’s going to be okay,” I said, kissing her forehead. “We can do this, honey.”
She smiled a little. “I hope so.”
“You’re going to be such a great mom, bug,” I said. “I mean it. This baby’s going to be the luckiest kid alive.”
June laughed through her tears, and for a few minutes, we just sat there, laughing and crying together.
“And it doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl,” I added. “As long as the baby’s healthy.”
June hesitated — just for a second — and then nodded. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Healthy.”
I noticed the pause, but I didn’t ask. I should’ve.
The day of the delivery came like a storm. June’s water broke just after midnight, and everything after that was a blur — flashing hospital lights, nurses rushing, beeping monitors, the smell of antiseptic in the air.
When the doctor said the epidural hadn’t worked, panic crawled up my spine. I wanted to be with her, but June grabbed my hand and said, through gritted teeth, “Go wait with the others, Tony. Please. I don’t want you to see me like this. Just be there when it’s over.”
Her grip was strong, her face pale. She meant it.
So I nodded and let her go.
I waited in the hallway, pacing holes into the floor. Our families were there — my parents, hers, my sister-in-law Mae — but I couldn’t sit still. Every time a nurse walked by, my heart jumped into my throat.
Then I heard it — the cry.
A single, sharp wail that cut straight through the walls and straight into my heart.
“The baby’s here,” I whispered. “Our baby’s really here.”
And for a second, I thought everything was going to be okay.
Then came June’s scream.
“That’s not my baby! That’s not my baby!”
The sound froze my blood. Mae gasped beside me. “Did she just say—?”
I didn’t wait. I ran.
When I burst into the room, the air felt thick and still. June was pale and trembling, her hair plastered to her face with sweat. A nurse stood nearby, holding the crying newborn.
“Ma’am,” the nurse said carefully, “this is your baby. She’s still attached to you.”
But June shook her head violently, tears streaming down her cheeks. “No! You don’t understand!” she sobbed. “Tony! That’s not mine!”
I rushed to her side, grabbing her cold hand. “June, honey, it’s me. Look at me. What’s going on?”
But she couldn’t look away from the baby. Her eyes were wild — terrified.
I turned to look at the baby, my heart pounding so hard I thought I might faint.
She was so small. Her skin was pink and soft, her fists clenched tight, her chest rising fast. She was crying, her voice tiny but strong.
“She’s perfect,” I whispered.
Dr. Lowe, the obstetrician, smiled gently. “She’s perfectly healthy. Strong lungs, steady heartbeat. Congratulations, Dad.”
I exhaled shakily, relief flooding through me. But when I turned back to June, her face was full of something else — something dark and broken.
“I thought it would be a boy,” she whispered.
“What?” I blinked.
“I thought…” She swallowed. “I thought it was a boy. I felt it. I knew it.” Her voice shook. “I even bought blue onesies, Tony. Toy cars. I picked out a name.”
I frowned. “Why were you so sure, June?”
Her eyes filled with tears again, and when she finally spoke, her voice cracked.
“Because it’s easier for boys,” she said. “Because I don’t want her to go through what I did. I don’t want her to be scared, or powerless. I don’t want her to grow up thinking her body is a target.”
And suddenly, I understood. June wasn’t scared of our daughter — she was scared for her.
I held her hand tighter. “She’s not you, June,” I said softly. “And you’re not who you used to be. We’ll raise her to be strong. We’ll teach her she’s powerful. And if anyone ever tries to hurt her… they’ll have to go through me first.”
June let out a shaky breath, half sob, half laugh. “Do you promise?” she whispered. “Promise you’ll love her just as much as if she were a boy?”
“I already do,” I said. “From the moment you told me you were pregnant.”
When the nurse handed me the baby, she was warm and impossibly light in my arms. I turned to June.
“Here,” I said softly. “Meet our daughter.”
June hesitated, then reached out with trembling arms. The moment she held her, something inside her shifted. She looked down at the baby, her tears falling freely now.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she whispered. “I’m your mom.”
That was the moment everything changed.
We named her Victoria — Tori for short.
“Because she’s going to win,” June said. “No matter what.”
Tori is six months old now. She laughs every time she hears June’s voice and cries the second she stops. She grips June’s fingers so tightly it’s like she knows who her anchor is. She’s fearless, curious, and loud — all of June’s fire in a softer form.
One night, I walked past the nursery and stopped. The door was slightly open.
June was standing by the crib, swaying gently. Tori was asleep, her little arms stretched above her head. The nightlight cast a golden glow across the room.
I was about to walk away when I heard June whisper.
“I’m sorry about that day,” she said softly. “You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. You were perfect.”
Tori stirred but didn’t wake.
“I was just scared,” June continued. “Not of you — of me. Of all the things I was still carrying.”
She traced her finger along Tori’s cheek.
“My father used to tell me he’d be prouder if I’d been a boy,” she whispered. “He said it when I cried, when I got top grades, even when I asked for help. It made me believe being a girl meant being less.”
She sighed, her voice breaking. “Once I fell at school and scraped my knee. He told me to stop crying like a girl — like that was the worst thing I could be.”
I felt my chest tighten. She had never told me any of that before.
“I didn’t want to pass that shame to you,” June said softly. “So when they said you were a girl, I panicked. I thought I’d ruin you.”
She leaned down and kissed Tori’s forehead. “But I won’t. I’ll walk beside you. I’ll fight for you. You’ll never wonder if you’re enough. You’ll know.”
Then her voice trembled one last time. “Your dad will protect us both, Victoria. He always has.”
I backed away from the door, my throat thick with emotion.
She was right.
I will.
Always.