“They’re okay,” she breathes.
“They’re strong,” the nurse confirms. “Both breathing beautifully.”
I lean down, pressing my lips to Zalea’s forehead again. “One of each,” I whisper.
Her laugh is wet and exhausted.
“Would you like your first family photo?” the nurse asks.
I nod and pull my phone out, handing it to her once she’s removed her gloves. I snuggle close to Zalea and our babies and smile for the picture.
“Such a beautiful family,” the nurse comments, handing my phone back to me. “Have you two thought of baby names?”
Zalea shakes her head. “We’re still deciding.”
Doctor Ricci finally steps around the curtain, mask lowered, sweat at her temples.
“She lost a significant amount of blood,” she says to me as she watches Zalea holding our babies. “But we’ve controlled it. She’ll need monitoring in recovery and possibly ICU for a short period, but she’s stable.”
Stable.
It’s the most beautiful word I’ve ever heard, especially after we almost lost everything tonight.
“However, because the twins were delivered before thirty-seven weeks,” she continues gently, glancing down at the twins, “they’re considered late preterm. They’re breathing on their own, which is wonderful, but they’ll need some extra support.”
My stomach tightens. “What kind of support?” I ask.
“They’ll be transferred to the NICU for monitoring,” she explains. “It’s very common at this gestational age. We need to make sure they’re regulating their temperature, maintaining blood sugar levels, feeding properly, and keeping their oxygen stable.”
“For how long?” Zalea whispers, her voice fragile as her grip tightens instinctively around the babies.
“It depends on them,” the doctor says. “Some late preterm twins only need a few days. Sometimes it’s a couple of weeks. They’ll need to prove they can maintain everything on their own before we clear them to go home.”
The room goes quiet except for the soft newborn sounds and the steady beeping of machines.
“They’re okay, though?” I press.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Right now, they’re doing well. This is precautionary. Not an emergency.”
Zalea nods slowly, though I see the fear behind her exhaustion. She lowers her head and presses a trembling kiss to the head of our son and daughter.
“They’re fighters,” she murmurs.
I step closer, brushing my fingers over the tiny feet peeking out from the blanket.
“They get that from you,” I tell her.
The doctor gives us a moment before speaking again. “We’ll let you hold them a little longer before the NICU team comes.”
Zalea looks up at me, tears pooling again because I know she doesn’t want our babies to be taken from us so soon, and neither do I. Not after everything it took to get them here.
“I hate this part,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I just got them.”
I lean down and press my forehead to hers. “It’s not goodbye,” I murmur. “They’re going to take care of them, and we’re going to be right there. Every day. Every hour if they let us.”
She nods, but the tears still come as she whispers promises only they can hear. I swallow the thickness in my throat as I watch.
A soft knock sounds at the door a few minutes later before it opens. Two NICU nurses step in quietly with rolling bassinets. They explain everything again and then step forward to take the babies. Zalea’s fingers tremble as she hands them over, one at a time, and I keep a steadying hand on her shoulder even though I feel like I’m splitting open.
