Someone was running.

Feet pounded against the corridor, doors slammed, voices rose in every corner of the house.

“Get the bag!”

“Call him, call him now!”

“Where are the wrappers?”

The house was alive with urgency — not panic, but something that made everyone’s heart race. Pots clattered in the kitchen, chairs scraped across the floor, someone spilled water, someone else shouted again.

And then came the call.

“Come home. It’s time.”

They said my father didn’t even stop to think.

He left what he was doing, grabbed his car keys, and ran out like a man whose whole life was about to change. People who saw him that day still laugh about how he drove — like a man possessed, like someone who wouldn’t let the world stop him from getting home.

By the time he arrived, sweat was running down his face. He didn’t even sit down. My mother’s bag was ready, her face calm but pale. Someone handed him the bag, someone else opened the door, and before anyone could say a word, they were gone.

The car sped down the road like it had wings. My father didn’t say much. His jaw was set, his hands gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. My mother prayed silently beside him. The road stretched before them, quiet except for the roar of the engine.

The hospital loomed ahead like a silent guardian, its walls white and unfeeling, yet holding the promise of life. My father parked hastily, grabbed my mother’s hand, and rushed inside. Nurses looked up, eyes wide, and suddenly there was a flurry of motion — the opening of doors, the clicking of heels on tiles, the scent of antiseptic mixing with the perfume my mother had worn.

“She’s coming!” one nurse called, voice bright but urgent.

“Keep calm,” my father said, voice firm but trembling.

“They said it’s time,” my mother whispered, clutching her bag.

Inside the delivery room, the atmosphere was electric. Machines beeped, doctors and nurses moved in a choreographed chaos, and every step my mother took was measured, yet urgent. My father’s eyes never left her. Every minute felt like an hour, every breath held like a secret.

And then — the first cry.

A sound so small, so fragile, yet so powerful it made every adult in the room stop mid-step. My father’s shoulders sagged in relief, a smile breaking across his sweat-drenched face. Nurses whispered praises, my mother exhaled in exhaustion and wonder.

“They’re quiet… she’s looking right at me,” my father muttered, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

“She’s beautiful,” one nurse added softly.

“She’s… wise, almost like she knows,” my mother said, her eyes glistening.

Back at home, the news traveled fast. My siblings — six older than me — ran up and down the halls. Windows flew open to watch the street, neighbors peeked in with curiosity, friends called to congratulate, and somewhere, balloons were being tied to the porch. The house felt alive, buzzing with excitement and awe.

By the time my mother returned home, the house was transformed. Chairs arranged neatly, the table covered with a crisp white cloth, decorations pinned to the walls. Paper flowers, ribbons, and the faint smell of fresh soap filled every corner. My father carried me in his arms, my mother beside him, tired but radiant.

And then — everyone saw me.

“She’s so quiet.”

“She’s so beautiful.”

“She’s looking at me — I swear she’s looking right at me!”

The baby didn’t cry much. Her eyes stayed wide open, like she had been here before, like she already knew she was home. People said she had a presence, a calm energy that filled the room instantly.

And here’s the part I love the most — because that baby everyone was running for, the one they were all waiting for…

That baby was me.

Yes, me.

I came peacefully and beautifully into this world on the 20th of July, 2007 — not knowing who I was, not knowing what my future would hold.

Of course, I wasn’t there to witness it myself. I wasn’t screaming or crying or running. But I’ve been told this story over and over, by my mother, my father, my siblings. Every time they recounted it, I felt as if I were there — the rush, the excitement, the awe, the sheer life of it all. I could picture every detail — the shouting, the running, the preparation, the joy.

And life, it seemed, didn’t pause for anyone.

The seventh child. My parents had six children already. They said they didn’t expect to have another, yet here I was, and everything — the laughter, the love, the chaos — expanded to make space for me. My father, who had run like a superhero to reach the hospital, held me like I was a piece of his soul, my mother smiled like the sun itself had chosen that day to shine brighter.

This was the beginning of a life framed by love and chaos, joy and tension. I grew up in a house that knew laughter and tears, discipline and indulgence, conflict and unity. And somehow, the memory of that first day, told to me repeatedly, became the lens through which I would view the world: fast, chaotic, beautiful, and full of surprises.

Every time I think of that moment — my father’s determined sprint, my mother’s calm bravery, my siblings’ wide-eyed excitement — I feel the pulse of life itself.

This is the day it all began.

And just as the room fell silent, as every eye fixed on the tiny life before them… no one could have guessed what was coming next.

Because that small, fragile cry was only the beginning—what would happen now?