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And I take it.

Because I would again and again, in every life.

Her fingers tighten around mine. “They’re so small,” she whispers.

“They won’t be for long.”

She looks at me, eyes wide and wet. “They’re ours.”

“Yeah,” I say, the word thick on my tongue. “They are.”

And somehow, so are we.

The moment the boys are lifted from our chests and nestled back into their glowing little space-pods, my arms feel too empty and too full all at once.

Mya lingers by Kingston’s incubator, fingers brushing along the edge of the glass like she’s afraid this whole moment might evaporate if she blinks too fast.

I step in beside her, close but not crowding, just… there. The way I always want to be now.

Imani approaches with that calm grace that makes her seem less like a nurse and more like the guardian angel of the NICU. She’s got her tablet in one hand, her presence steady and warm. “They did beautifully today,” she says, voice low and sure. “Both boys tolerated skin-to-skin really well. Heart rates stayed steady. Temperature held.”

Mya nods slowly, soaking it in like sunlight after a storm.

“I know you’re both wondering about when they’ll be ready to go home,” Imani continues gently, as if she can read our thoughts before we even speak them. “All going well, we’re looking at ten to thirteen more weeks. The average stay for twenty-seven-weekers is up to their due date—so somewhere around thirty-seven to forty weeks, corrected.”

That hits like a silent clock ticking somewhere deep in my chest. Ten weeks. Ten more weeks of plastic cribs and monitors and daily check-ins before we can bring them home.

I squeeze Mya’s hand gently, anchoring her. Us.

“There are a few big milestones we’re watching for,” Imani says, flipping to another screen. “First, they’ll need to breathe completely on their own—no oxygen, no apnea episodes. Second, they have to regulate their body temperature outside the incubator. Third, oral feeding—no more feeding tubes, and steady weight gain. And finally, no major health issues or complications.”

Mya glances at the tubes still taped gently to Kingston’s cheek. Her expression shifts—love sharpened by worry.

I ask the question hanging between us. “How are they doing so far?”

“They’re progressing well,” Imani says with a reassuring smile. “We’re still taking things day by day, but so far—no red flags. Their lungs are still developing, but that’s normal. They’re tolerating feeds, and both boys have strong reflexes. We’ll keep monitoring closely. Every quiet day is a good day.”

There’s a tightness in my throat I can’t quite swallow.

Kody shifts slightly in his incubator, and my heart does that ridiculous thing where it somersaults against my ribs like it’s trying to reach him.

“They’ll tell us when they’re ready,” Imani adds, then steps back to give us a moment.

Mya’s gaze doesn’t leave the boys. She leans into me, like she’s borrowing strength without having to ask, and I wrap my arm around her waist, tucking her in against my side.

“We’ll bring them home,” I say quietly, my lips brushing her temple. “When they’re ready, we’ll be here. And they’ll come home to us.”

She looks up at me, eyes a little shinier than before. But there’s something solid in her now too—like hope is finally starting to take root again.

She nods. Just once.

And when her hand presses gently against the incubator, it’s not shaking this time.

It’s steady. Certain.

So are we.

Chapter Twenty-One