“She’s perfect.” I move closer, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “Four pounds of pure perfection.”
Sophia reaches out with trembling hands, and I transfer our daughter into her arms. The baby fusses slightly at the movement, and Sophia makes a soft shushing sound that seems to calm her immediately.
“She’s so small,” Sophia whispers, tears streaming down her face. “So beautiful.”
“Just like her mother.” I stroke Sophia’s hair back from her face, my own eyes burning. “You did it, my love. You brought her into this world.”
The baby starts to fuss more insistently, her little face scrunching up. Sophia looks at me, then at the nurse hovering nearby.
“She’s probably hungry,” the nurse says with a knowing smile. “Would you like to try breastfeeding?”
Sophia nods, and the nurse helps her adjust her hospital gown.
I watch as she guides our daughter to her breast, as that tiny mouth latches on and begins to nurse.
The sight is so intimate, so primal, that I have to look away for a moment to compose myself.
“We did it,” Sophia says softly, looking up at me with those blue eyes I love so much. “We actually did it.”
I lean down and kiss her forehead, her nose, her lips. “You did it. You’re incredible.”
We sit together in the quiet room, our daughter nursing peacefully, and for the first time in months, I feel something like peace. This is what matters. Not territory or power or revenge. This. My family, safe and whole.
“What should we name her?” Sophia asks, her finger tracing our daughter’s tiny hand.
I think about Nicole, about the sister I lost. About how she would have loved to be an aunt, how she would have spoiled this baby rotten. “Nicole,” I say quietly. “If you’re okay with that.”
Sophia’s eyes fill with fresh tears. “It’s perfect.”
Our daughter finishes nursing and falls asleep in Sophia’s arms, her little chest rising and falling with each breath.
I sit beside them, my hand resting on Sophia’s leg, and I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we can have this. A normal life. A happy family.
The door opens, and Tony and Melinda slip in quietly.
They move to the bedside, their faces soft with wonder as they look at the baby.
“She’s beautiful,” Melinda whispers.
“She looks like you, Soph,” Tony adds, his voice thick with emotion.
We’re all smiling, all caught up in the miracle of new life, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I almost ignore it, but something makes me check.
Instead of another dire situation, it’s a group text from several of my men offering congratulations on the baby.
I smile, then notice the concern in Sophia’s eyes.
I show her the text and relief floods her pale features.
Somehow, I know that this text is a sign of what’s to come.
A better way of life.
A safer way for my family.
EPILOGUE (3 YEARS LATER)
Sophia
