Meeting Maliyah: A Night I’ll Never Forget
Originally written in 2013 | Updated 2024
Reflection: It’s hard to revisit this story now. So much has changed. My sister and I are no longer close—our shared trauma pulled us in different directions, and sometimes the damage runs so deep it can't be repaired. I’ve made my own mistakes, I know that. But I hope that, wherever she is and however she feels, she knows that I always wanted the best for her and Maliyah. My intentions have always come from a place of love. They still do.
On July 9th, 2013, my sister went into Boston because she was experiencing what she thought were Braxton Hicks contractions. I knew that with CDH (Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia) babies, there was always a risk of early labor, but my sister was determined her baby would stay put until the scheduled induction date.
So, when she came home that night—still contracting but insisting they weren’t real—I was in disbelief.
The next day, I insisted on going over to my parents’ house to see her, bringing my two kids with me. I’m so glad I did. I remembered what it was like being pregnant with your first—it’s hard to tell when those "practice" contractions slowly turn into the real thing.
Michelle was clearly uncomfortable, lying on the couch nearly in tears, still insisting the contractions weren’t painful, just “weird.” But something didn’t sit right with me. I called her doctor’s office and told them she was still having consistent contractions. They called back two minutes later: “Head to the hospital now.”
I rushed to help them pack for the two-hour drive—three pillows, a blanket, and whatever I could think of last minute. Michelle still swore she wouldn’t be delivering yet. My parents told me, “This is her first baby. Labor will take at least 12 hours.” But in my mind, it had already been 24.
Since I don’t drive, I was at the mercy of my mom and aunt. Long story short—we arrived 10 minutes too late. She was already pushing. I was heartbroken that I couldn’t be there to hold her hand, yell at a nurse on her behalf, or coach her through contractions. But my little sister did just fine—with her partner by her side.
We finally got to see Michelle around midnight. My mom and aunt left. My grandmother and kids were already asleep, and I had no idea where I was going to sleep myself. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t leaving until I saw that baby.
Matt had been with the baby since the moment she was born, so I stayed with Michelle. She was surprisingly patient with the nurses—though clearly eager to see her daughter. Like any brand-new mom who’s never experienced an epidural before, Michelle insisted she could stand up and walk. I wanted to laugh (I was her just two years ago). But we insisted on the wheelchair, and with help, we got her settled and headed down the hall.
And there she was: Maliyah. 4 pounds, 8 ounces. So tiny, so beautiful. Despite the tubes, she looked like any other newborn. I was overwhelmed with emotion. Seeing her made every delay, every minute of uncertainty, completely worth it.
That night reminded me of how powerful those first moments are. And how much love and strength flows through our family—especially when we least expect it.
Closing Reflection: This story is a memory I hold close to my heart, even as time and distance have changed the shape of our family. I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know that love—real love—shows up when it matters. And that’s what I tried to do. This post is not just about Maliyah’s birth. It’s a reminder that even if relationships change, the love behind those moments still matters.
