Naomi's POV
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I had written speeches for years—crafted them for CEOs, political candidates, panels, and publicists. I’d stood behind podiums, lit by overheads and flanked by branded backdrops, delivering sentences timed to applause.
But today…
Today my stage was a hospital room.
My audience? A camera phone balanced on a stack of parenting books.
My outfit? A clean robe over a wrinkled nightgown.
My microphone? Raymond’s old lapel mic clipped to a curtain tie.
There were no lights. No makeup team. No podium.
Just me. My voice. And the echo of a baby’s breath down the hall.
---
Raymond adjusted the curtain behind me again for the fourth time. “Too wrinkled?”
I shook my head. “You’re fussing more than I am.”
“I just… I want it to feel special.”
“It is
