They place her in Nora’s arms, and I swear I’ve never seen anything more fragile or powerful than the two of them together. She’s tiny. Pink. Already frowning like she’s unimpressed with the lighting situation.
I lean over them, the three of us a shaky little constellation.
“She has your nose,” I whisper.
“She has your lungs,” Nora murmurs. “I heard her scream before she even opened her eyes.”
“She’s got opinions,” I say, voice cracking. “She’s one of us.”
Nora looks up at me, tears streaming down her face. “She’sours,Max.”
My heart folds in on itself.
I press a kiss to Nora’s forehead, then to the baby’s soft crown, still damp and new and smelling like everything good in the world.
“I didn’t know I could love like this,” I whisper, and I mean both of them.
The baby lets out another tiny wail, and Nora shushes her instinctively.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, arms shaking, and reach out to stroke the top of the head with one shaking finger.
She blinks up at me, little brow furrowed, like she knows all my secrets already.
“Hey there,” I whisper, voice wrecked. “I’m your dad.”
Then I grin. “I guess Grandpa Sid wasn’t right after all. No twins.”
Nora snorts. “Maybe next time.”
I whip my head around, eyes wide. “Nexttime?”
She smirks, already smug. “Too soon?”
“Way too soon. I just got feeling back in my legs.”
She laughs again, the kind that crinkles the corners of her eyes. And our daughter—ourdaughter—makes another tiny noise and curls her fingers around the edge of Nora’s gown like a claim.
Nora looks at me.
“We need to give her a name,” she says softly. “What do you think?”
I nod. We’ve danced around names for weeks—nothing stuck. Everything felt like trying on someone else’s shoes.
But now, looking at this tiny human we made, I know.
“What about Isla?” I say, barely above a breath.
Nora blinks. “Isla?”
“It means island,” I explain. “Which feels… right. Like she’s this calm, perfect place we didn’t even know we were swimming toward.”
Nora stares down at our daughter for a long beat, then smiles.
“Isla,” she repeats, testing the sound of it. “Yeah. That’s her.”
She shifts the baby slightly so I can get a better look, and Isla—our daughter—lets out a contented sigh. Like she’s heard us and approves.
My throat tightens. I press a kiss to Nora’s temple, then another to Isla’s tiny forehead. “Hi, Isla,” I whisper.
