Her laugh is quiet but genuine. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."
"I know." I shift slightly, adjusting my hold on the twins. "Emma, you brought two human beings into the world. You're allowed to cry and beg and threaten murder."
"Still. I wanted to be—I don't know. Stronger."
"You couldn't possibly be stronger." I turn my head to look at her, needing her to see the truth in my eyes. "Emma, you spent fourteen hours in labor. You pushed two babies out of your body. You're a warrior."
Tears well in her eyes. "Don't make me cry."
"Then I'll stop." But I don't look away. "I love you. So much. And I'm so proud of you."
A tear spills down her cheek despite her trying to hold them back. "I love you too. And I couldn't have done it without you."
"Yes, you could have."
"But I didn't have to. That's the point." She wipes at her eyes, then gestures to the twins. "Can I—will you hand them to me? I want to hold them."
Emma settles back against the pillows and We manage the transfer carefully, both of us focused on supporting their heads. The sight of her with a baby in each arm—exhausted and radiant—makes my throat tight.
"I'm going to take a picture," I say.
"Grant! I look terrible."
"You look beautiful." I pull out my phone and snap several photos before she can protest. Her hair is a mess, there are dark circles under her eyes, and her hospital gown is well… a hospital gown, totally unflattering.
A soft knock on the door interrupts the moment. We both look up as it opens, and Emma's mother slips inside.
Helen Sullivan looks like an older version of her daughter—the same warm brown eyes, the same delicate features. But where Emma radiates determination and fire, Helen's energy is gentler. More subdued.
The result of so many years with David Sullivan.
"Emma, sweetheart." Helen crosses to the bed, her eyes already wet with tears. "Oh my goodness. They're here. They're really here."
"Hi, Mom." Emma's voice is soft and cautious.
Helen bends down to kiss Emma's forehead, then looks at the twins with wonder. "Can I—may I hold one?"
She gives a small nod and carefully transfers Clara into her grandmother's arms.
Helen cradles her like she's made of glass, her tears falling freely now. "She's so precious. Emma, she looks just like you did."
"You think so?"
"I know so." Helen strokes Clara's cheek with one finger, her smile tremulous. "What's her name?"
"Clara. And he's James, named after Grant’s grandfather."
"Clara and James." Helen tests the names, then looks at me.
I stand, suddenly restless. "Thank you for coming. I know it's—complicated."
The word hangs in the air. Complicated doesn't begin to cover it.
Helen shifts Clara to one arm and reaches into her bag with the other. She pulls out a package, wrapped in blue paper with gold ribbon. The wrapping is clumsy, the edges uneven.
David's handiwork, not hers.
"This is from both your dad and me," she says quietly to Emma before extending the package toward me.
