"When do we have time?"
"Valid point."
Sophie's back with Gracie, who's starting to fuss. "Someone's hungry."
"Story of my life." I take Gracie to a quiet corner to nurse while Miles gives Graham a bottle in the chair next to me.
"Tag team feeding," he says.
"Our specialty."
We sit side by side, each feeding a baby, watching our family laugh and celebrate across the room.
"I love this," I tell Miles.
"The feeding?"
"All of it. The chaos. The family. Us."
He reaches over with his free hand, squeezing mine briefly before Graham demands his attention back.
That evening, we're finally home. Both babies fed, changed, and miraculously asleep at the same time.
"It's a Christmas miracle," I whisper.
"Wrong holiday."
"Any miracle will do."
We collapse on the couch, too exhausted to move. The house is quiet except for the baby monitor's gentle static.
"We survived six weeks," I say.
"We really did."
"Only eighteen years to go."
"One day at a time."
The monitor crackles. Gracie's making sounds—not crying yet, just stirring. We both hold our breath, waiting to see if she settles.
She does.
"Two miracles in one night," Miles whispers.
"We're on a roll."
He pulls me closer, and I rest my head on his shoulder. My body aches. My eyes burn with exhaustion. I can't remember the last time I showered.
And I wouldn't trade any of it.
"Want to check on them?" Miles asks.
"Always."
We tiptoe to the nursery. Two cribs, two sleeping babies, soft yellow walls. The room we prepared, now filled with the tiny humans we made.
Miles moves to Gracie's crib, looking down at our daughter. I stand at Graham's, watching our son sleep with his little fists curled against his face.
