Chapter 72 The New Normal
By the time Elena was three months old, they’d settled into something resembling a routine.
Wake at 6 a.m. when Elena decided the day should start. Coffee while she nursed. Breakfast during her first nap. Errands during her alert periods. Another nap. More nursing. Walks around the neighborhood when they couldn’t stand being inside anymore. Dinner, bath time, the impossible task of getting her to sleep by eight.
Then they’d collapse on the orange couch and watch whatever show they were too tired to actually follow.
“This is our life now,” Ariella said one evening, Elena finally asleep in the bassinet beside them.
“Yep.”
“We’re those people. The ones who only talk about their baby.”
“We’re exhausted parents of a three-month-old. What else would we talk about?”
“I don’t even remember what we talked about before.”
“School. Winters. Survival. The usual.”
“God, that feels like a different life.”
“It was a different life.”
Ariella looked at their daughter, sleeping peacefully for once. “Do you miss it? The Old life? Before all this?”
“Before the baby or before the contract?”
“Both. Either.”
Aiden thought about it. “I miss sleeping. And having time to think. And not being covered in spit-up constantly. But do I miss my old life? The one where I was drowning in my father’s expectations and pretending to be okay? No. Not even a little.”
“What about now? Do you feel like you’re drowning now?”
“Sometimes. But in a different way. This is chosen drowning, I guess. We picked this chaos.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No. But it makes it ours.”
Elena stirred, making the tiny sounds that meant she’d be awake and hungry in approximately two minutes.
“Your turn,” Ariella said.
“I did the last feeding.”
“That was three hours ago. My boobs need a break.”
“Fair.” Aiden got up, lifted Elena before she could fully wake. “Hey, little one. Let’s go get you a bottle so Mom can have approximately twenty minutes of freedom.”
He’d gotten good at bottles, the right temperature, the right angle, the gentle burping technique that sometimes prevented the massive spit-ups. Being a present father instead of the distant kind his own father had been.
Ariella watched them from the couch, her heart doing that thing it did now, expanding and breaking simultaneously. This was what she’d been fighting for without knowing it. Not justice or revenge or even survival.
This. Family. Home. The freedom to be tired and covered in baby fluids and happier than she’d ever been. In December, they took Elena to meet extended family for the first time.
The Hayes-Frost Community Center was having a holiday party. Kids from the programs, families who used the resources, volunteers who kept it running. And the four of them, Ariella, Aiden, Elena, and the ghosts they carried with them.
“I wish Ethan could meet her,” Ariella said, holding Elena in the parking lot.
“Me too. And my mom. They’d have loved her.”
“Do you think they know? Wherever they are?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
Inside, the center was transformed, lights, decorations, the smell of Claire’s baking filling the space. Patricia Moreno was there, teaching a group of kids to make paper snowflakes. Marcus was helping set up chairs. Lily was running the music.
“You brought the baby!” Patricia exclaimed, coming over immediately. “Oh, she’s grown so much since I saw her at the hospital.”
“Three months tomorrow,” Ariella said proudly.
“She’s beautiful. May I?”
Ariella handed Elena over carefully. Patricia held her with practiced ease, the sadness in her eyes mixing with joy.
“My son would have been a father by now,” she said quietly. “Would have had kids. I think about that sometimes. The grandchildren I’ll never meet.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I get to be an honorary aunt to this one, right?”
“Absolutely.”
The party was chaotic and warm. Kids everywhere, music too loud, people laughing and celebrating. Elena was passed around like a trophy, everyone wanting to hold the baby who’d been born from the ashes of their collective trauma.
Claire made a speech about the center’s first year. About the sixty families they’d helped with job training. The two hundred kids in after-school programs. The countless meals served in the community kitchen.
“This place exists because two teenagers refused to let tragedy have the final word,” she said, looking at Ariella and Aiden. “Because they chose to build instead of just grieve. And now we have this, this space where people can start over. Where second chances are real.”
People clapped. Ariella felt tears on her face.
“We should say something,” Aiden whispered.
They hadn’t planned to speak. But they walked to the front together anyway, Aiden holding Elena.
“We don’t have a speech,” Ariella started. “But we wanted to say this place is named for Catherine Frost and Ethan Hayes. Two people who saw injustice and tried to fight it. Who died because they were brave.”
She paused, emotion choking her.
“Elena won’t remember them. She’ll only know them through stories we tell her. But she’ll grow up knowing that her name carries weight. That she comes from people who chose courage over comfort.”
Aiden continued. “And we hope this center does the same. That it helps people choose courage. Choose to start over. Choose to believe in second chances.”
“Or third chances,” Ariella added. “Or however many chances it takes.”
More applause. More tears. Elena started fussing, breaking the moment perfectly.
“And on that note,” Aiden said, “we’re going to go change a diaper. Because that’s parenthood profound moments interrupted by poop.”
Everyone laughed. They retreated to the bathroom, both of them shaking slightly.
“That was good,” Ariella said, changing Elena on the fold-down table.
“That was terrifying.”
“Same thing.”
Elena kicked her legs, happy to be free of the wet diaper. At three months, she was discovering her body, hands, feet, the fact that she could grab things and shove them in her mouth.
“She’s going to be walking before we know it,” Aiden said.
“Don’t say that. I’m not ready.”
“We’re never ready. We just do it anyway.”
“Story of our lives.”