Olivia softens, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve had nine months to figure this out.”
“I was busy being pregnant,” I shoot back.
“You were busy avoiding it.” She’s not wrong.
I exhale slowly. “I thought I’d feel more prepared by now.”
“For what?”
“For this.” I gesture weakly. “For the weight of it.”
She nods, thoughtful now instead of confrontational. “You don’t have to tell him tonight.”
“No.”
“But you will tell him?”
I hesitate. Because the answer isn’t no. It’s not even maybe. It’s just not yet. “Yes,” I say finally. “Eventually.”
Olivia studies me like she’s measuring the honesty of that. Then she nods once. “Okay. Eventually.”
Silence settles, softer this time. I look down at my sons—Nicholas Graham and Walker Finn. My sons. The names feel real in my mouth.
Nicholas stirs, eyes fluttering briefly before settling again. Walker’s tiny mouth opens and closes in his sleep like he’s dreaming of something already.
Tears prick my eyes without warning.
“Oh no,” Olivia says gently.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, even as one spills over. “I’m just…overwhelmed.”
She reaches for my hand, squeezing once. “That’s allowed.”
I nod, wiping at my face again.
Down the hall, a cart rattles past. A nurse laughs softly at something. Life continues outside this room, unaware that my entire universe just shifted on its axis.
“I think,” I say quietly, “Damian’s right.”
Olivia raises a brow. “About?”
“We should get some sleep.”
She smiles faintly. “Look at you, taking doctor’s orders.”
“Shut up.”
She pulls the blanket around herself in the chair as a nurse slips in quietly to dim the lights. The room softens into shadows.
I adjust the bassinets closer to my bed, unable to stand the distance. I reach out and brush my fingers lightly over Nicholas’s cheek, then Walker’s tiny hand. I close my eyes, the weight of exhaustion finally winning.
The last thought of the night is that I am not ready for any of this.
But I’ve always thrived on improvisation. I can do this.
Probably.
8
