Ethan immediately drops to a whisper. "Baby sleeping."
The change is so abrupt it makes Maya laugh, a soft sound that gets caught in her throat when she sees my mom's face. Mom's trying not to cry and failing spectacularly, mascara already smudged at the corners.
We file inside, and Mom hovers, hands fluttering like she doesn't know what to do with them. Max appears from nowhere, sniffs the car seat suspiciously, then stalks off with his tail high like he's personally offended by this new interloper.
"He'll warm up to her," Emma says, laughing through tears as she watches him go. "He warmed up to Ethan eventually."
"Eventually being the keyword," Chase mutters, setting the car seat down. "It took six months and daily bribery with treats."
Sofia's still asleep, her tiny face peaceful under the pale yellow hospital blanket, unaware she's the center of this chaos. Emma lifts her out of the car seat carefully. She's been holding Sofia for weeks in the NICU, but this is different. This is home, and the weight of it shows in the way her hands shake.
"Do you want to hold her?" Emma asks Mom, and her voice cracks on the question.
Mom nods, unable to speak, and takes her granddaughter carefully. She settles into the armchair by the window, the afternoon light falling across them both, and Sofia fits in her arms perfectly. Mom just stares down at her, tears streaming freely now, and nobody comments on it because we're all close to the same state.
"She looks like you did," Mom tells Emma after a long moment. "Same nose. Same chin."
Chase grins from where he's standing behind the chair. "Poor kid."
Emma elbows him without looking, her focus still on Sofia and Mom.
Ethan wants to see, so Chase lifts him with a grunt. "Gentle," he reminds, keeping one hand on Ethan's back. "Very gentle."
Ethan reaches out one chubby hand and touches Sofia's cheek with surprising delicacy. "Soft baby."
"Very soft. Can you say hi to your sister?"
"Hi, baby Sofia." Then, louder, with all the pride a toddler can muster: "I'm big brother!"
Sofia startles, eyes opening wide and unfocused. For a second, everyone freezes, holding their breath, waiting. Then she just blinks, looks around with those hazy newborn eyes that don't quite see anything yet, and goes back to sleep as if nothing happened.
"Tough kid," Maya says from beside me, and I can hear the approval in her voice. "Nothing fazes her."
We spend the afternoon in organized chaos. Emma tries to establish routines while simultaneously accepting that newborns don't care about routines, schedules, or any human concept of time. Chase handles Ethan, who's both fascinated and confused by his sister, wanting to help but not understanding why the baby doesn't do anything fun yet. Mom helps with everything, the way she always does, making herself useful without taking over.
And Maya's in her element. She checks Sofia's breathing without being obvious about it, and shows Emma better burping techniques when she gets fussy. She's confident, the nurse who saved lives before Carson tried to destroy her, before she forgot who she was underneath all that trauma.
I watch her hold Sofia, watch the gentle way she supports her tiny head and talks in that soft voice she reserves for babies and scared patients. Something in my chest cracks open.
This.I want this with her.
Not right now, not tomorrow, but someday.
Mom catches me staring from across the room and raises an eyebrow in that knowing way only mothers can manage. I shrug like I'm not transparent, like she can't read every thought on my face.
Later, while Emma's feeding Sofia in the nursery and Chase is wrestling Ethan into pajamas, a process that involves far too much giggling and not enough actual pajama wearing, Mom corners Maya in the kitchen.
"Can we talk?" she asks, and there's something meaningful in her tone.
Maya glances at me, uncertainty flickering across her face. I nod. She's got this, whateverthisis.
They disappear into the backyard, and I try not to hover by the window like a creep. I fail. I watch through the glass, trying not to be obvious about it while simultaneously being obvious.
Mom says something, gestures toward the pendant. Maya's hand goes to it immediately, an unconscious gesture she does when nervous, when she needs to ground herself. Mom reaches out and touches it, and Maya freezes like someone hit pause on her.
I can't hear them, but I can read the body language, the way Maya's shoulders are tense and then slowly relax. Mom's smiling, saying something that makes Maya's eyes go wide. Then Mom pulls her into a hug, and Maya's shoulders shake in that way that means crying, and I force myself not to go out there and interrupt whatever's happening.
When they come back inside ten minutes later, Maya's eyes are puffy, and Mom's beaming like she just won the lottery.
