Dane doesn’t speak when I tell him.
He kneels. Presses his forehead to my stomach. Breathes.
Later, fear arrives.
Not all at once. In waves.
What if.
What if again.
What if my body remembers too much.
I don’t romanticise it. I don’t call it a miracle. I call it what it is.
A recalibration.
My body learning a new rhythm while carrying the memory of an old one. Joy and terror sharing the same space without apology.
We travel to Melbourne together for work. Dane has shipping meetings that stretch long and late. I meet younger publishers with sharp eyes and brave ideas. I find antiques for the publishing house. A long oak table. Old filing drawers with history baked into the grain. Pieces that know how to hold stories.
I also meet suppliers we can’t source back home. Sensory equipment. Linens. Hospital-grade baths that don’t feel like hospitals. I sit with families who needed something like Gracie’s Sanctuary and didn’t have it.
I start planning another one.
Australia this time.
Carrie meets me for coffee between offices. Peach tea becomes our ritual. We walk back and forth, day after day, like we’re mapping a life with our footsteps. She buys the villa next door without hesitation.
“I’m not missing this,” she says simply. “Godmother duties.”
My fear spikes as my body changes. Every scan tightens my chest. Every quiet moment feels too loud. I admit it to Daneone night, curled against him, the ocean breathing outside the windows.
“I don’t think I could survive it again,” I whisper. “If this baby doesn’t stay.”
He doesn’t minimise it. Doesn’t offer hollow certainty.
He just holds me.
“Then we’ll survive together,” he says. “But we’re doing everything we can.”
And he does.
Doctors. Midwives. Specialists flown in without fuss. He becomes meticulous in a way that is almost tender. He hires a chef who learns my cravings and my nausea patterns like a language. He outfits both houses with equipment I pretend not to notice until I realise how safe it makes me feel.
His devotion is in motion. In logistics. In preparation. In staying present even when he travels.
Distance never disconnects us.
Ports. Meetings. Expansions. Salt and steel cling to him when he returns. He kisses my belly like it’s a compass every time.
Our marriage isn’t fantasy.
It’s architecture.
Built to hold weight.
Our table grows crowded.
