"We are."
"And he'll survive. He'll grow up. He'll live."
"He will."
Silence for a moment. Then the weight I've been carrying for eight weeks surfaces.
"But there won't be more," I say quietly. "No siblings. No second chances if something—" I can't finish.
"I know." Maksim's hand finds mine. "The hysterectomy—"
"Means he's our only biological child. Our only chance." The grief hits fresh despite two months to process. "What if he'd died? What if we'd lost him and that was it? No more pregnancies, no more babies, just—nothing?"
"But we didn't lose him. He's here. Fighting. Surviving."
"I'm grateful," I say quickly. "So grateful he's alive. But also—mourning. Mourning the daughter we'll never have. The pregnancies that won't happen. The family that will always be incomplete."
Maksim pulls me against him. "Our family is complete. Right here. You, me, Nikolai. That's our family. If we want more someday—adoption, surrogacy through someone else—options exist. But this? This is complete. This is enough."
"Is it enough for you?" I ask. "Really?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "You survived. He survived. We're all breathing. Everything else is just—details."
I want to believe him. I want to accept that one child is enough, that surviving the emergency makes up for losing future possibilities.
But the grief sits heavy alongside the gratitude. Both are true. Both are real. Both are part of this new reality.
Week 12 (June 10th):
Homecoming day.
Nikolai is six pounds three ounces. Twelve weeks old, adjusted age negative-three weeks (he should still be inside me for another three weeks, technically). But strong enough, healthy enough, ready enough for home.
The doctors spent the past week teaching us everything—feeding schedules, medication administration, monitor operation, when to call for help, emergency protocols. We're as prepared as possible.
At 2:00 PM, we dress Nikolai in real clothes for the first time—a tiny preemie outfit, still slightly large on his six-pound frame. He looks impossibly small and impossibly precious.
Sergei arrives with the SUV at 2:15 PM to drive us home—Maksim wouldn't trust anyone else. The drive takes thirty minutes. I sit in the back with Nikolai in his car seat, unable to take my eyes off him. Maksim sits beside me, both of us hyperaware of the precious cargo.
We arrive at the mansion at 2:45 PM.
Sergei opens the SUV door for us, then helps me carefully with Nikolai's car seat. "Welcome home, little boss," he says to Nikolai, voice gruff with emotion.
The nursery is ready—ballet barre at toddler height, mix of Russian folk art and dance themes, monitors positioned, everything we need. Natasha decorated it while we were at the hospital, and made it perfect.
That first night home is terror and joy mixed equally.
Nikolai sleeps in our room—we're not ready for him to be down the hall yet, need him close.
The apnea monitor sits on the nightstand, tracking his breathing and heart rate. It's much simpler than the NICU equipment, just one small device, but it will alarm if he stops breathing or his heart rate drops.
The doctors assured us he's strong enough not to need oxygen at home anymore, but the apnea monitor stays for the first few months—standard protocol for preemies.
We take shifts sleeping—two hours on, two hours off, neither of us getting real rest.
The apnea monitor's alarms twice during the night. Both times we jump awake, hearts racing. Both times it's a false alarm—sensor pad shifted when he moved. But each alarm spikes adrenaline, reminds us how fragile he still is, how recently he needed machines to breathe.
By morning, we're exhausted and wired and grateful he survived his first night home.
