Chapter 97 Going Home

Chapter 97 Going Home


The car seat looked like an alien contraption designed to confuse new parents. Harper stood in the hospital room, staring at the straps and buckles, Eleanor sleeping peacefully in her arms, completely unaware her parents were having a breakdown.

"The chest clip goes at armpit level," Sebastian read from the instruction manual for the third time. "Harness straps should be snug. You shouldn't be able to pinch any slack."

"What if we do it wrong? What if she's not secure and something happens?" Harper's voice was rising with panic.

"We watched the nurse demonstrate twice. We've got this." Sebastian didn't sound convinced.

They'd been parents for forty-eight hours and were already failing at the first real test. Bringing their daughter home.

After ten minutes of adjusting, readjusting, and questioning every choice, Eleanor was finally secured in her car seat. She looked impossibly small, surrounded by padding, the straps carefully positioned across her tiny chest.

"Is she breathing okay?" Harper asked. "The straps aren't too tight?"

"She's fine. Look, she's still sleeping."

A nurse came in with discharge papers and a cheerful smile that felt inappropriate given Harper's terror. "All set? Remember, the pediatrician wants to see her in three days. Call if you have any concerns. Fever over 100.4, difficulty breathing, not waking to feed."

Harper's mind reeled with worst-case scenarios. "What if we miss something? What if we don't notice she's sick?"

"You won't miss it. Parents have good instincts." The nurse patted her shoulder. "You'll be fine. Everyone's nervous with their first."

They wheeled Eleanor out of the hospital, Harper walking slowly beside the wheelchair Sebastian was pushing, still sore from delivery. The September afternoon was bright and warm. Eleanor slept through it all, oblivious to her parents' mounting anxiety.

Getting the car seat into the base took another ten minutes. Sebastian checked it three times while Harper hovered, certain something was wrong.

"It's secure," he said finally. "I promise. It's not going anywhere."

Harper climbed in the backseat, unable to sit up front away from Eleanor. She needed to see her, needed to watch her breathe, needed to be close enough to catch her if the universe decided to be cruel.

Sebastian drove like they were transporting explosives. Ten miles under the speed limit, braking gently at every light, checking the rearview mirror constantly.

"She's still sleeping," Harper reported. "Still breathing. She looks okay."

"Good. That's good."

The twenty-minute drive home felt like hours. Every car that came too close made Harper tense. Every pothole felt dangerous. This tiny person was suddenly outside the protection of the hospital, vulnerable to everything.

At the penthouse, they stood in the elevator with Eleanor in her car seat, both of them silent.

"This is it," Sebastian said as the doors opened. "We're really doing this."

"We're really doing this."

The apartment looked the same but felt completely different. The nursery they'd so carefully prepared now seemed inadequate. What if Eleanor hated it? What if they'd made terrible choices?

"Should we put her in the bassinet?" Sebastian asked, setting the car seat down carefully.

"I don't want to wake her. What if she starts crying and we can't figure out what's wrong?"

"She'll cry eventually. Might as well be now when we're both awake."

Harper lifted Eleanor from the car seat, marveling again at how light she was, how fragile. The baby stirred, face scrunching, preparing to cry.

"Oh god, she's waking up. What do we do?"

"Nurse her? That's what the lactation consultant said. When in doubt, offer the breast."

Harper settled on the couch, fumbling with her nursing bra. Eleanor latched immediately, the crying stopping as abruptly as it started.

"Okay," Harper breathed. "Okay. She was just hungry. That's manageable."

Sebastian collapsed beside them, looking as exhausted as Harper felt. "How do people do this? How is everyone not constantly terrified?"

"Maybe they are and they just don't talk about it."

Eleanor nursed for twenty minutes, then fell asleep still attached. Harper was afraid to move, afraid to disturb her.

"My arm's falling asleep," she whispered.

"Want me to take her?"

"I'm scared to move her. What if she wakes up angry?"

"Babies don't hold grudges."

"We don't know that. She's brand new. She could be vindictive."

Sebastian laughed quietly. "Our daughter is not vindictive."

Carefully, painfully slowly, Harper detached Eleanor and passed her to Sebastian. The baby made a small sound of protest but didn't wake fully.

"Crisis averted," Sebastian said, cradling Eleanor against his chest. "We did it. We got her home and fed her. We're basically professionals now."

"We're disasters waiting to happen."

"That too."

The afternoon blurred into evening. Eleanor woke to eat, cried for reasons they couldn't identify, needed diaper changes that took three times longer than they should have. By 8 PM, both Harper and Sebastian were running on fumes.

"How long until she sleeps through the night?" Harper asked, nursing Eleanor again.

"Months. Maybe longer." Sebastian consulted one of the parenting books. "Says here newborns eat every two to three hours around the clock."

"Around the clock. As in, no sleep."

"As in, very little sleep."

Harper felt tears threatening. She was so tired. Her body hurt from delivery. Her breasts hurt from nursing. Everything hurt, and they hadn't even made it through one full day at home.

"I can't do this," she said, voice breaking.

"Yes, you can. We can." Sebastian sat beside her, arm around her shoulders. "It's just the first day. We'll figure out a rhythm."

"What if we don't? What if we're just terrible at this?"

"Then we'll be terrible together. But Harper, look at her." He gestured to Eleanor, contentedly nursing. "She's fed and clean and safe. We're doing okay."

Eleanor finished eating and promptly spit up all over Harper's shirt. Harper stared at the mess, then at her daughter, then burst into exhausted laughter.

"I take it back. We're terrible at this."

Sebastian grabbed a burp cloth, cleaning them both up. "She's just testing us. Seeing what we're made of."

"I'm made of exhaustion and fear."

"Perfect parent material."

They tried putting Eleanor in the bassinet beside their bed at 10 PM. She lasted five minutes before crying. Harper picked her up immediately, and Eleanor settled against her chest.

"She hates the bassinet," Harper said.

"She's used to being held. In the hospital, someone was always holding her."

"So what do we do? Hold her constantly?"

"For now, maybe. Until she gets used to being on her own."

Harper climbed carefully into bed, Eleanor on her chest. The baby made small contented sounds, tiny hand curled against Harper's collarbone.

"This is against all the safe sleep rules," Harper said.

"I know. But she won't sleep any other way."

"We're bad parents already."

"We're adaptive parents. There's a difference."

Sebastian lay beside them, hand on Eleanor's back. They stayed like that, Harper afraid to move, afraid to sleep, afraid to do anything that might disturb this fragile peace.

At midnight, Eleanor woke crying. Harper fed her, changed her, walked her around the dark apartment. Sebastian took over at 2 AM when Harper was falling asleep standing up. At 4 AM, they were both awake, passing Eleanor back and forth, trying desperately to figure out what she needed.

"Maybe she's cold," Harper suggested.

"I added a blanket. She's still crying."

"Too warm?"

Sebastian removed the blanket. Eleanor cried harder.

"Gas? The book said gas is common."

Sebastian tried bicycling her tiny legs. More crying.

"Okay," Harper said, taking Eleanor back. "We're officially out of ideas."

She held Eleanor close, swaying gently, humming a tuneless melody. Slowly, gradually, the crying subsided. Eleanor hiccupped twice, made a small sound of protest, then fell asleep.

"How did you do that?" Sebastian whispered.

"I have no idea. Pure luck."

They stood in the nursery, both afraid to move, afraid to break whatever spell had finally gotten Eleanor to sleep.

"First day almost over," Sebastian said quietly.

"Only eighteen years to go."

"We've got this."

"Do we?"

"Ask me again tomorrow."

Harper looked at her sleeping daughter, then at Sebastian. They were exhausted, confused, completely unprepared for this. But they were together. And somehow, that felt like enough.

"Tomorrow," Harper agreed. "Let's just survive tonight first."

They made it back to bed, Eleanor between them despite all the guidelines. Neither could sleep, both watching her breathe, marveling that this tiny person was theirs.

"Welcome home, Eleanor," Harper whispered.

Sebastian's hand found hers across their daughter's sleeping form.

"Welcome home," he echoed.

And in the quiet darkness of their bedroom, their family of three began figuring out how to be exactly that.

A family.

Imperfect, exhausted, but together.

Day one complete.

Only forever to go.