DOMINIC
Hope creeps in silently, soft and warm, the way sunlight slips between curtains in the morning. But once it’s there, once it touches you, it’s impossible not to reach for more.
That’s what today feels like.
We’re at her twenty-week appointment, and I’m trying my best not to look like a man about to pass out from emotion. Enya lies back on the exam table, her shirt lifted just enough to expose the swell of her belly.
My child is in there.
Our child.
She wouldn’t let me take her to her twelve-week appointment, but I did see the baby and hear its heartbeat when I took her to the ED four weeks ago. This time, though, she put the appointment on the calendar that she hangs in her kitchen.
I was expected to take her.
The father.
We’ve come a long way in a short time.
Enya doesn’t want to know the baby's gender; she wants to be surprised. I’m a planner, I hate surprises—but I’m going to give her what she wants.
“You sure you don’t want to know the sex of the baby?” the OBGYN asks.
I look into Enya’s eyes, feeling a profound sense of rightness. “Yes, we’re sure,” I confirm.
After the appointment, I take Enya home.
I insist that she rest. She argues—says the shop won’t run itself, that she can’t afford to lose momentum—but this time I don’t back down.
It took weeks of quiet pressure to get her to agree to part-time help. Conversations framed around logistics instead of worry. Cash flow instead of fatigue. Me reminding her that once the baby is here, she’s going to need help anyway. Eventually, she relented.
Farah is a GWU student who lives a few blocks away. She’s smart, careful with the flowers, and reverent about the space Enya created at Lucille’s. Farah comes in for four hours, three days a week, and covers days like today when Enya has appointments.
Enya still checks in, still gives instructions, still hovers more than she admits—but she’s learning to delegate. And I’m learning to let her do things her way, as long as she’s not doing them alone.
We eat a light lunch—she’s having to space her food because of heartburn—after which I get her into bed.
As she lies down, I sit next to her, staring at the printouts of the ultrasound photos like I’m studying a holy text. I already sent pictures to the family chat group. I did the same last time. Everyone agrees that the baby is adorable and thankfully looks more like Enya, which is a good thing. Obviously, we have no clue what the baby looks like because what we can actually seelooks more like a weather map with eyes than a baby. Still, cutest baby ever.
Enya watches me, her Kindle on her belly. “You’re really happy,” she murmurs.
“I’ve never been happier,” I admit.
She blushes.
I put the photos aside, and slide into bed next to her. We’ve been sleeping together, and she lets me hold her. Thanks to that, I’ve been sleeping better than I have in years.
She cuddles into me. No resistance.
“The scar on your chest?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Back, before, you said you were in a bicycle accident.” That’s how we refer to the old times when I was Nick Smith and not Dominic Delacour.
“I was shot.”
She sits up, gasps. “What?”
