Dr. Rowan Bennett steps out, hair in a messy bun, scrubs wrinkled from a long night shift, sneakers scuffed. She looks exhausted. And beautiful. And brilliant. She always has.
She spots us on the porch, and her whole face softens.
“There’s my family,” she says quietly, shutting the door and locking it out of muscle memory.
Lily stirs again, this time lifting her head as if she senses her mother’s presence by instinct alone. Her blue eyes, Rowan’s eyes, blink owlishly in the dim light.
“Mama,” she whispers.
Rowan climbs the porch steps and bends to kiss our daughter’s forehead, then gives me a second kiss on the corner of my mouth that lingers longer than necessary.
“Tired?” I murmur.
“Always.” She sinks onto the swing beside me, leaning into my side until her head finds my shoulder. “But seeing you two makes it better.”
I wrap an arm around her automatically. “How was your shift?”
She groans. “Three births. Two false alarms. One twelve-year-old with appendicitis who insisted he was too tough to cry until he definitely wasn’t.” She smiles faintly. “I love it. Even the chaos.”
“You’re good at it,” I say, kissing her hair. “You were made for this.”
She presses her face into my neck. “You say that every morning.”
“Because it’s true every morning.”
For a while, we just sit there, my wife tucked against me, my daughter in my arms, the sky slowly brightening over the mountains.
This is my favorite kind of silence. Not the restless, angry kind I used to feel after deployments. Not the heavy, suffocating kind from hospital rooms. This is the quiet of being exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Lily wiggles, fully waking now, and pushes herself upright against my chest.
“’Nack?” she asks hopefully.
Rowan chuckles. “You just woke up, and you want a snack?”
Lily nods very seriously.
“Of course she does,” I say, standing and shifting her onto my hip. “She’s my child.”
Rowan groans, but she’s smiling as she follows us inside.
The kitchen is warm from the heating vent under the window. Toys are scattered everywhere. My half-finished wooden rocking horse sits in the corner, sandpaper resting on the seat. Rowan’s stethoscope hangs on a hook next to the pantry door. It’s messy. It’s lived-in.
It’s perfect.
I chop fruit while Rowan changes into yoga pants and one of my old shirts. Lily babbles around a piece of banana while banging a spoon on her high chair tray.
Rowan comes back and leans against the counter, watching me with soft eyes.
“You were up early,” she says casually.
“Not by choice.” I nod at our busy toddler. “She woke up crying.”
Rowan frowns. “Nightmare?”
“Maybe. Or she heard a squirrel sneeze. Hard to say.”
Rowan chuckles, then tilts her head, studying me for a second too long.
