Chapter 52 Epilogue 2 (GMH)
A nurse pressed our baby into her arms, and Ava let out this broken, breathless sound, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
Ava's hands trembled as she cradled the tiny bundle close. The baby’s cries softened into little hiccuping whimpers, and she just stared, transfixed, her lips parted in shock.
I couldn’t take my eyes off either of them. She was here. The baby was here. And I— I didn’t know what to do with the way my chest felt like it was caving in and expanding all at once.
The nurse leaned in, smiling. “Congratulations. You have a daughter.”
A daughter.
I choked on air.
She turned her head slightly, finally looking at me, her eyes wide and swimming with tears. “Wolfe,” she whispered, voice raw. “She’s—she’s ours.”
I reached out, my fingers brushing the top of the baby’s head. It was so soft, so impossibly small and then I cupped her cheek, my thumb sweeping away the tears.
“Yeah,” I rasped. “She is.”
Our daughter.
Ours.
She let out a shuddering breath, her shoulders sagging as the exhaustion hit her full force. But she didn’t let go of the baby. Not for a second.
I didn’t blame her. I didn’t want to let go either.
The nurses moved around us, cleaning up, checking vitals, murmuring instructions, but none of it registered. The only thing that mattered was right here—her, me, and this tiny, perfect life we’d somehow made without even realizing it.
Ava sniffed, pressing a kiss to the baby’s forehead before hesitantly looking up at me. “Are you… Okay?”
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “Am I okay?” My voice cracked. “Sweetheart, you just—” I swallowed hard. “You were incredible.”
She exhaled, leaning into my touch. “I was scared.”
“I know.” I kissed her temple, lingering there. “Me too.”
The baby made a tiny noise, her little face scrunching up before settling again.
We both stared.
“What do we do now?” she whispered.
I didn’t have an answer.
But for the first time in my life, that was okay. Because we’d figure it out. Together.
I pressed my forehead to hers and closed my eyes, “Now,” I murmured, “we love her.”
And that was enough.
LATER THAT NIGHT~
They discharged us just before sunset.
Ava was quiet the whole ride home, cradling the baby like she thought the world might try to steal her away. I drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting gently on Ava’s knee, grounding myself in the fact that this was real. That they were real. That I was bringing my family home.
Our daughter slept most of the way, her little face relaxed, mouth slack, fingers curled into tiny fists.
By the time we got home, Ava was half-asleep from the exhaustion, and I helped her into bed with a soft kiss on her forehead, promising to be back after settling the baby.
I didn’t know how to do this. I’d never held something so small for so long, but somehow, my body just knew. My heart sure as hell did.
I laid her gently in the crib we’d rushed to assemble just a few hours ago, still not believing she’d be here so soon. She gave a little grunt in protest, then fell still again.
I stood there for a while watching, listening, heart wide open and bleeding in ways I didn’t think it could.
—
3:47 AM
I heard the cry before I opened my eyes. Soft at first. Then sharp. Loud.
I blinked into the dark, immediately reaching across the bed. Ava was still dead asleep. Out cold, like she’d finally let her body give in after fighting so hard.
I moved quickly, quietly. Tiptoed over to the crib in the corner of the room. Maria, our sweet little princess, was wide awake. Her tiny legs were kicking weakly, her little face wrinkled up like she was angry at the world.
“Hey, shh, sweetheart,” I whispered, already scooping her up. She was warm, squirmy, unbelievably light in my arms.
I pressed her to my chest, one hand cradling her head, the other curled protectively around her back.
“Ssshhh… Daddy’s got you.”
I glanced back at the bed. Ava hadn’t moved. Good. She needed this. She’d done the hard part. Brought our daughter into the world with pain and blood.
The least I could do was take care of the night shift.
I held Maria a little tighter as I stepped out into the hall and padded toward the living room. The floor was cold under my feet, and I was in nothing but sweats and a t-shirt that still smelled faintly of the hospital room.
She gave a small sigh, squirming against my chest. I looked down, heart squeezing.
“You’re trying to get comfortable, huh? Sorry, I’m not exactly an expert at this whole dad thing yet.”
I sat on the couch and awkwardly tried to adjust her in my arms then immediately panicked when her face scrunched up like she was about to start crying again.
“No, no, no, wait—I got you. See? Look.” I shifted her back, tucked her against my chest just the way the nurse showed me. “There. That’s better, right?”
She let out a soft grunt but didn’t cry. Her eyes stayed closed, her little mouth twitching.
I laughed quietly, brushing my thumb over her cheek. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?” I leaned down and kissed the top of her head, heart bursting. “You’ve got me wrapped around your finger already. I’d rob a bank if you asked.”
Another sigh, this one softer. She was drifting again.
She blinked up at me, her eyes unfocused, her little mouth making shapes like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. I chuckled under my breath, brushing a fingertip down her cheek.
“You cry exactly like your mother,” I murmured. “And I’ve got no clue what I’m doing.”
I leaned back against the couch and closed my eyes, rocking her gently, just breathing her in. Her skin smelled like baby lotion and something brand new.
Ten minutes passed and I thought I had her.
She was quiet for a solid ten minutes—breathing slowly, cheek pressed to my chest, one tiny hand fisted in the collar of my shirt like I was her whole world. And then, out of nowhere, she stirred. Wrinkled her nose. Let out a soft little whimper.
I held my breath.
Please no. Please don’t cry. Please just—
She screamed. Loud. Full volume.
She squirmed. Arched her back. Made a face like she’d just learned what taxes were and couldn’t believe the injustice.
I tried pacing. Did the bounce thing. That awkward little dad-shuffle I’d seen in every movie. My hand rubbed small circles on her back. Nothing. I was losing this battle. Fast.
But then I had an idea.
I lowered my voice, swaying side to side like a tired tree in the wind. “Okay, okay, let’s try something else. Don’t judge me, alright? I haven’t sung since middle school, and I was terrible then too.”
She blinked at me.
I cleared my throat and started to sing a lullaby.
Hush now, little star, close your weary eyes, The moon is here to watch you, lighting up the skies.
I kept going. Embarrassed? Yes. Off-key? Absolutely. But I didn’t care. Not when her lashes started to drift lower. Not when her little body stilled again, pressed to mine in mid-slumber.
My voice cracked on that last line. She didn’t seem to mind.
I kissed the top of her head and whispered, “That’s all I got. I’d offer an encore, but I think you’ve suffered enough.”
She made a sound, like a sigh and a hiccup tangled into one and finally, finally melted into sleep.