She is stubborn, or maybe just waiting for the right moment.
When she arrives, she is silent for a breathless second, then opens her eyes and looks directly at me before she starts to cry.
The sound is different—sharper, more insistent.
The nurse hands her to me, and I pull her close, feeling the heat and the weight and the impossible reality of her.
They clean us up, wrap the babies, and leave us alone.
Ruairí sits on the edge of the bed, one arm around me, the other holding our son.
I have our daughter pressed to my chest, her head tucked under my chin.
We do not speak for a long time.
When we do, it is in whispers.
"Ciarán," I say, and Ruairí nods.
"Saoirse," he replies, his voice thick.
We sit like that, two generals in a bunker, holding the future in our arms.
The world outside could end, and we would not notice.
Lena comes in, softer than usual.
She looks at the babies, then at me.
"Godparents?" she says, and I see the glint in her eye.
"Niamh," I say.
"For her." I nod at the girl.
"And Fiachra," Ruairí says.
"For him."
Lena grins.
"They'll be honored. But you know Niamh will teach her every bad habit."
I smile, and for once, the pain is gone.
"They'll need it," I say.
We sit in the white, bright room, the four of us, and I know—without doubt—that there is nothing left to fear.
A few nights later,I sit in the bedroom.
The fire is nearly out.
Only a few coals glow at the base of the grate, but it's enough to keep the air in the room thick and soft, enough to blur the edges of the furniture until everything feels a little closer, a little less defined.
The new wing of the house is nothing like the old one.
Gone are the draughts and cold spots, the water stains on the ceiling and the uneven boards that creaked underfoot like old men in prayer.
