The quiet after the birth

Just finished a home birth. The mother slept through the last hour, curled into herself like a question mark. I sat in the dim kitchen, listening to the silence that follows labour—the kind of quiet that feels full, not empty. I made tea and didn’t drink it. Just held the cup, warm against my palms, watching the steam rise like something almost spoken. It’s the small things: the way the baby’s breath sounds when they’re asleep, how the room still hums with effort even when no one’s moving. I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because I needed to say it out loud before it faded.