The quiet doesn’t last. It never does. My phone vibrates again, and this time I don’t need to look to know who it is.
Time for a new mission.
13
KATHERINE
The little bundle strapped onto my chest weighs enough to be comforting and just enough to remind me I haven’t slept properly in months. He’s snug asleep in his carrier as I push the shopping cart down the aisle, one hand steadying the metal handle, the other resting instinctively against his back. His head fits perfectly beneath my chin, his breath puffing softly against my collarbone. I’ve learned the rhythm of him—when he’s content, when he’s curious, when he’s about to voice his opinions loudly and without apology.
Right now, he’s content.
A woman passing us slows, her face softening immediately. “Oh my goodness,” she coos, stopping outright. “He’s beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I reply automatically, smiling because it’s easier than not smiling.
Compliments about Julian land differently than compliments about me ever do. They settle deeper and stick to my heart.
“How old?” she asks, peering closer, but respectful enough not to touch.
“Five months.”
She tilts her head, still smiling, but there’s a flicker there—the way people try not to say the wrong thing. “He’s a little small for his age.”
“He was born premature,” I answer evenly. “But he’s doing great now.”
The woman nods quickly, a little flustered. “Oh—well, he looks very healthy and happy.”
“He is,” I nod, because that part is true in a way that feels almost miraculous.
She moves on, and I keep walking, the hum of the grocery store filling the space around us—carts squeaking, music playing faintly overhead, someone laughing two aisles over. These are all normal sounds of ordinary life.
Julian shifts, his tiny fingers curling into the fabric of my sweater, and the movement pulls me backward in time without warning.
The first trimester was easy, almost deceptively so. I was tired, yes, nauseous in a way that felt textbook, but otherwise manageable. I remember thinking that maybe I’d be one of the lucky ones. That my body would cooperate the way it always has. My second trimester corrected that assumption swiftly.
Appointments multiplied overnight, words like “monitoring” and “precautionary” started appearing more often than reassurance. I spent long afternoons on exam tables staring at ceiling tiles, learning to read doctors’ faces the way I read headlines—searching for what wasn’t being said.
By the third trimester, everything felt fragile. Time stretched and compressed simultaneously, days blurred into waiting. Waiting for results, calls, and for my body to behave.
It didn’t.
Julian arrived early, furious about it, lungs underdeveloped and tiny fists clenched like he was already fighting the world. I remember the shock of how small he was, the way my heart lodged somewhere in my throat and stayed there. I remember being wheeled past him, catching only a glimpse before he disappeared behind glass and wires and machines that beeped too loudly in rooms that never fully slept.
A month in the NICU changes you.
You learn to mother through incubator walls, how to love with your hands hovering inches away, memorize numbers and alarms and the sound of your child breathing because you’re terrified of what silence might mean.
I push the cart a little slower now, grounding myself in the present. Julian sighs softly, his cheek warm against my chest, his heartbeat steady. He’s here, and he’s healthy. He laughs now and smiles like the world hasn’t taught him anything painful yet.
At the end of the aisle, I stop to grab a box of diapers, shifting my weight to keep him comfortable. My reflection catches in the freezer door—me with dark circles that never quite fade, hair pulled back in a practical knot, a baby strapped to me like an extension of my own body.
He looks just like his father.
The thought lands quietly, the way it always does. Not sharp enough to wound, nor soft enough to ignore. Dark eyes, familiar nose, and a face that mirrors someone who walked out of my life before he ever knew it existed. Bittersweet feels like an understatement.
Julian stirs, lips puckering, then settles again, one tiny hand resting flat against my skin as if to remind me where I am. I bend my head and kiss his hair, breathing him in.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, more promise than statement.
