After having brought the Hebrews out of slavery in Egypt, it seemed only natural that Tzipporah and I should have our first child. It was the perfect time to have a child, the first of many generations to taste the succulence of freedom. Time was slipping fast before Tzipporah could no longer bear children, but we believed in miracles. If God intended for us to have children, He would allow it to be so.

Many months passed as Tzipporah's belly grew rounder with the baby inside. Sometimes, with my hand on her belly, I would feel the baby's kicks against my palm. During the later months, our soon-to-be daughter or son wearied Tzipporah quickly as she did her chores. My sister, Miriam, helped her out every day when she could. She insisted that she wouldn't mind being awoken in the middle of the night—her help would always be near. Yes, and so will mine, always concerned for my wife's wellbeing and baby. I know she got quite tired of my concern sometimes, but understood I meant well.

At long last, the months dwindled so we knew it was only a matter of days before the baby was born. Tzipporah moved out of our tent into another on the edge of camp, reserved for the women, especially those close to giving birth. Naturally, Miriam came in early one morning to be with Tzipporah as she prepared to move to the other tent until the baby was born.

"I wish I could be there with you," I said softly as I walked outside the tent with her and Miriam.

Tzipporah wrapped an arm around my waist, holding me close. I placed a tender kiss on her forehead, my heart aching knowing I wouldn't see her for a while.

"I know, Moses," she murmured, "but this is for the best."

"Tell me as soon as the baby is born, Miriam," I told my sister, "I don't care if it's midday or midnight, tell me at once."

Miriam smiled, "You know I will."

"I'm holding you to that promise."

"I'll make sure she does," Tzipporah assured, "she won't have a chance to delay telling my beloved husband the good news."

I managed a little laugh. "Of course not."

Tzipporah unwound her arm from around my waist and took my hand in hers, squeezing it. We turned to gaze at each other, my dark eyes staring into hers. We leaned our heads in, so our foreheads touched.

"God will watch over you," I whispered, "He will protect you, and our baby."

Embracing as best as we could despite her pregnant belly, we closed our eyes as we kissed. I knew she didn't want to part, and nor did I. The tent would be empty without her presence, even if it was full of people.

"I love you," I whispered in her ear as we broke the embrace, "Wish I could be there with you."

"I know," Tzipporah brushed the side of my face with her fingers, "Think of it—when you see me again, you will be a father."

It was hard to watch her walking away with Miriam to the women's tents, but I remembered what she said. When I would at last see her again, I would be a father. But I knew not whether I would be father to a son or a daughter.

Daily, I prayed to God that my wife and baby would be safe from harm under His protection. I didn't want to lose Tzipporah—or the baby—not our first child. I knew back in Egypt so many women died in childbirth or lost children to illnesses. I didn't even want to think about how horrible the tenth plague had been throughout Egypt. Remembering the wailing that had hung above the city after the plague passed still gave me chills down the spine to this day.

Keep my baby under Your protection, God! I prayed daily in my tent, Be benevolent to the child and to the child's mother and father. We have wanted this for so long. Grant us a miracle, O God. I am patient, and my patience wanes with each sunset. Miriam tells me all is well, but I still worry. Please bestow your mercy on the child and Tzipporah.

Even Aaron prayed with me, wanting to meet his soon to be niece or nephew. I knew he wanted to see both come through healthy and well at the end. I was grateful for my brother keeping my spirits up and worrying to a minimum. We joked, laughed, and discussed anything but Tzipporah and her baby. We hadn't known each other long, and yet Aaron seemed to know me better than I did. Somehow, even despite never having grown up together, Aaron and I got along as though we'd known each other since infancy.

"A man can die of too much worrying," Aaron reasoned in those days of uncertainty, "Best keep your mind off the both of them."

In the days as I awaited news of the birth, I regretted having never known Aaron during childhood, while I was a 'prince' at the palace of Pharaoh Seti. Then again, I probably wouldn't have cared—those were dark days when I saw the Hebrews as mere slaves struck down under our feet. I shuddered to think.

One morning, Aaron and I were discussing the addition of new commandments from God when someone tore the tent flap aside, sending a river of light into our eyes. At the entrance stood Miriam, panting from exertion and excitement.

"Moses! The baby!"

I stood up so fast I almost lost my balance, as I rushed to Miriam.

"The baby's here?!" I exalted.

"It's a boy!"

"A boy?"

"Yes!"

"Does Tzipporah have a name for him?" I babbled.

"No—she wants you to name him."

"How are they faring?"

"Both are well!" Miriam assured, grabbing my arm and tugging me out of the tent, with Aaron following behind.

Outside the tent, Aaron clapped me on the shoulder. "A father! You are a father!"

I sorely wanted to sprint madly, leaving Miriam and Aaron in the dust, but age had already stolen away some of my youthful energy.

"I need a chariot," I mumbled.

"What's that?" Aaron asked as we walked briskly in the direction of the tent.

"A chariot would get us there faster," I said, thinking back to chariot races of youth, "get a couple strong horses and a sturdy chariot, and we'd have been there and back twice by now."

"Maybe it's best we didn't," Aaron disagreed, "from what you tell me, every time you got in a chariot, a temple was destroyed."

"It was only once!"

"Sure it was," he grinned, "with all respect, Moses, I don't believe you."

I shook my head, knowing my brother wasn't going to let the subject go. Instead, we strode to the tent where Tzipporah and my new baby son would be waiting for our arrival.

"You thought of a name yet?" Miriam asked.

"Not yet," I gasped, wincing as I felt a small stitch in my ribs. "I'll think of one."

What should I call him? I wondered, What name is perfect for my first-born son?

Fortunately, we managed to reach the tent before I accumulated any more grey hairs. Miriam held up a hand, stopping us in our footsteps.

"Wait there," she said.

"What? I'm not allowed to see Tzipporah?" I asked, "just this once, Miriam."

She shook her head, a knowing smile on her lips. "Sorry, Moses, it is how it is."

"Surely they allow…"

But my sister had disappeared into the tent, leaving me alone with Aaron. If I had been much younger—let's say fifteen or sixteen—, I would've just walked in anyway, bold as brass. Even now, half of me wanted to, but another half hesitated. I felt Aaron's eyes on me as I stared at the closed tent flap.

"Go on Moses," Aaron urged, "I know you want to go in. You released us from slavery, and you're afraid of a bunch of women?"

I winced inside; I didn't tell Aaron, but his last, goading words reminded me painfully of Rameses. It was exactly the sort of thing he'd say, not without a smirk and a push in the tent's direction.

"I think they have their reasons," I answered, still reeling a little, "They need their privacy."

"You're their saviour, they can't just not let you in."

"That's not right!" snapped a voice right behind the tent flap, "You're our saviour, but you can't come in!"

Aaron looked sideways at the tent's entrance cover, "I guess we heard the lady."

"Don't you even think on it!" the hidden woman snapped again, "I know you are!"

"Jemima!" admonished Miriam from inside, "you'll wake the baby!"

I heard a sniff from the other woman, before Miriam poked her head through the tent flap.

"Tzipporah is resting for now," she informed as she extracted herself from the entrance, her arms holding a bundle, "but here he is."

A lump swelled in my throat as my sister strolled to me, the swaddled bundle still in her arms. I reached out my arms, hands shaking with emotion, as Miriam handed me my newborn son, a charmed smile on her face.

"Your new baby boy," she murmured, "he is the most handsome I have seen."

I gazed down at my sleeping baby son swaddled in a blanket. He was newborn, but already had a shock of brown hair. His features were tiny and delicate, but his weight was warm in my arms. I could hardly breathe, my heart fluttered in my chest with the realisation: I was a father. I don't know if I wept or not, but I probably did—joy, exhilaration, pride, and fatherly love. Even Miriam was wiping her eyes with the palm of her hand.

"God has blessed you, Moses," she sniffled, "he has blessed you with a healthy boy."

I cuddled the bundle to my shoulder, lightly planting a little kiss on the baby's head. At the same moment, the perfect name struck my heart.

Gershom.

"Gershom," I whispered to the baby, "Your name is Gershom, for I was a stranger in a strange land."

Miriam and Aaron looked at me, askance.

"And it was in that strange land I was no longer a stranger," I continued, as much to myself as to my siblings, "and that strange land gave to me a wife, Tzipporah."

"Shall I tell Tzipporah?" Miriam asked after a long pause.

I only managed to nod.

Later the same evening, I sat alone in my tent, eyes closed, still reeling over holding my newborn, Gershom. I was now a father—a father who would teach his son all he needed to know and learn. He would grow to be a strong man in mind and heart, unfailing in his confidence and morality. I would be the father who would teach him. I would be the one who would explain the story behind the Passover, how God had sent all the plagues upon Egypt, finally taking all the firstborn sons, even Rameses' son.

My eyes flew open as I recalled the last plague with a renewed sense of horror and grief. Before, when remembering the last plague, it was as though I were a witness standing apart, saddened by the sight, but not truly comprehending. I had been apart from the mothers and fathers who lost children, who wailed aloud, startling the fidgeting stars in a lightening sky. I was sympathetic, but did not truly understand the grief parents had that night. I had wept more for the loss of my brotherly closeness with Rameses, and with sadness for him and hundreds of other parents that night.

Now…

Now I understood. I understood the searing agony and terror of seeing your own child lying too still to be alive. Too limp, too pale, too…still. The way Rameses' son was. I had known that the plague would be worse than the other nine combined, but I did not understand. I didn't understand why it was so horrific—and now as a father, I shuddered. My stomach tightened, feeling sick with the horror and agony of that night. I watched the remembrance of Rameses lying his son on the table, preparing him for burial, like it was yesterday.

I understand, Rameses. I understand why you were so angry. I didn't understand your loss—for I wasn't a father as you were. How dare I try to empathise, to comfort you, when I couldn't even begin to imagine your pain?

I sat up, crossing my legs, hands limp in my lap. My hands shook with the renewed sense of empathy. Empathy for not just Rameses, but every parent that lost a child.

I did not warn them, I thought, I did not warn any of the Egyptians…

Except Rameses, who did not listen.

I should have found a way, I thought miserably, hiding my face in my hands, tears seeping through my fingers, I should have saved his child…should have saved more…

Now, I grieved in solidarity, side by side with all the parents of Egypt, with all the Hebrew parents who lost their children. I do not usually dread God, but I feared right then—would he ever call me to give up my own firstborn child? My own firstborn son?

Would I refuse? Would I go against God's will? Would I give up Gershom so easy?

Sucking in a shuddering breath, I lifted my head to see a familiar silhouette growing larger outside the tent flap, carrying what looked like a bundle in her arms. It was Tzipporah with Gershom in her arms. She stretched out an arm to open the tent flap.

"Moses?" she called in a soft voice.

"I'm here," I managed.

As though she heard the choke in my words, Tzipporah rushed to my side, kneeling down.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

I took a deep breath, "Nothing, Tzipporah. Just thinking."

Tzipporah turned her head to look at me; I couldn't really make out her features, as it was night.

"Perhaps Gershom will cheer you up," she suggested, passing the wriggling baby into my arms. I loved that wriggling, squirming bundle—so alive, so full of life. Despite myself, I smiled, charmed by this tiny child cradled in my love. I knew right then what I would do should God ever want my firstborn son.

I would refuse.

I would refuse with heart, soul, and fury—I would remind him of all the children he had taken before. I would protect my child with my life.

If he wanted a life, it would never be Gershom's. Never.

Then who? Who would he take instead?

If you ever want my son's life, I told God silently, You will have to take mine first. My life. Not his life. Mine. My soul, not his. I would fight you to let my child live.

I would die for this squirming, handsome little Gershom, with a lifetime of possibilities yawning into the horizon. His journey had only begun, his torch just lit, illuminating a long hallway of years. The possibilities of life could fill a pharaoh's palace, and the years would fly by with the carefree spirit of a young man chariot racing with his brother.

As a father, I was ready to fight for his life, just as I had fought for my people's freedom.