The announcement comes too soon.
"Visiting hours end in fifteen minutes. Please begin saying your goodbyes."
Fifteen minutes. It's not enough. It could never be enough.
Aunt Ellie stands, stretching. "I'll give you two a moment."
She disappears down the hallway, and then it's just me and Vanna, standing in the middle of the visiting room while other families say their goodbyes around us.
"Seven more weeks," I say. "That's how long until you come home."
"Seven weeks." She takes a shaky breath. "I can do seven weeks."
"You can do anything." I cup her face in my hands. "You've already proven that."
"Will you come back? Next weekend?"
"Every weekend. Every single one until you walk out those doors."
She goes up on her tiptoes and kisses me—soft and sweet and full of promise.
When she pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"Take care of yourself," I say. "And take care of our baby."
"I will." She puts her hand on her stomach. "We'll be here. Waiting for you."
I kiss her one more time, trying to pour everything I feel into it.
Then I make myself step back.
Make myself walk toward the exit.
At the door, I turn for one last look.
She's standing where I left her, hand raised in a small wave, tears streaming down her face.
But she's smiling.
And there's something in that smile I haven't seen in years.
Peace. Hope.
The quiet certainty of a woman who's finally starting to believe she deserves to be happy.
Aunt Ellie is quiet as we walk to the truck.
She doesn't say anything as I climb behind the wheel, doesn't comment on the way my hands shake slightly as I fit the key into the ignition.
She just reaches over and squeezes my arm once before settling back into her seat.
We're twenty miles down the road before I can speak.
"She's going to make it," I say. "She's really going to make it."
"Of course she is." Aunt Ellie's voice is matter-of-fact, like she never doubted it for a second. "That girl's got more fight in her than anyone I've ever met. She just needed something worth fighting for."
The baby. Our family.
