Page 52 of Glass Wings

She turns to me then, eyes blazing even through her tears. “You did this, Harley. You made her. And she’s perfect.”

I want to believe her. I really do. But all I can do is press my hand to the blanket over my lap. “She doesn’t feel like mine,” I whisper.

Easton’s hand tightens around the wheelchair handles behind me, his silence heavy.

My parents are next, with Easton’s following not long after. Suddenly, my small hospital room feels overcrowded, buzzing with too many voices and not enough space. Two fussing grandmothers hover like mother hens, asking the nurses a hundred questions and debating which blanket would be warmest while they try to outdo one another with plans for tiny sweaters and nursery decorations.

The two grandfathers, on the other hand, stand near the wall like bookends, shifting their weight from foot to foot, clearly at a loss for what to say or do. Every once in a while, one of them will clear his throat or mumble something about how “she’s strong” or “she’ll be home in no time,” but they look as if they’d rather be asked to build a shed than handle a premature baby in an isolette.

It should be overwhelming. And maybe it is. But it’s also a welcome distraction from the darkness that keeps pressing in on me. For a few minutes, I let myself drift into the noise, into the bustle of mothers trying to fix what can’t be fixed and fathers fumbling for words that never quite land.

Easton stays close, always within reach; his hand brushing my shoulder, his thumb tracing my knuckles when no one else is looking. And for those brief minutes, surrounded by the mess of family, it’s almost enough to quiet the voice in my head telling me I’ve already failed. I hate that voice.

I just want to be happy.

The room doesn’t empty until late afternoon. Kennedy finally leaves with promises to come back tomorrow and “smuggle in real coffee,” and the grandmothers only leave when the nurses gently insist, again, that visiting hours are ending. The grandfathers trail after them, still looking awkward, still muttering half-formed reassurances, but I’m grateful they tried.

When the door finally shuts behind the last of them, the silence feels heavier than it did before. Easton leans against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s been holding his breath all day.

“You, okay?” he asks softly.

I give him a small shrug. No, not really, but at least the noise has dulled the edges of my guilt for a little while.

A nurse pokes her head in, smiling gently. “She’s stable enough for some skin-to-skin now. Would you like to hold her?”

The words hit me like a jolt. My mouth opens, then closes again. Panic claws up my throat. “I … I don’t think I can.”

Easton is beside me instantly, crouching so his eyes are level with mine. “Harley, listen to me. She needs you. Nobody else can give her what you can. Just try. I’ll be right there.”

Tears sting my eyes. “What if I hurt her?”

“You won’t,” he says firmly, his hands wrapping around mine. “She’s ours, and she’s stronger than she looks. Just let her feel you.”

The nurse wheels me back down the hall, Easton at my side. My heart pounds with every beep of a NICU monitor until we reach her isolette. The nurse moves carefully, unhooking what she can and shifting the wires that she can’t. Then she lifts Quinn, still impossibly small and wrapped in a blanket, before placing her against my chest.

I freeze. She’s weightless, terrifyingly fragile, her tiny breaths a flutter against my skin. My arms tremble around her.

“Quinn,” I whisper, the name breaking out of me with sobs I can’t hold back. “Quinn Faith.”

Easton’s hand covers mine, steady and sure. When I glance up, his cheeks are wet too. “We’re going to be okay.”

And for the first time since waking, the emptiness inside me shifts, just a little, as my daughter’s heartbeat taps steady against mine.

The nurse waits until I’m ready, then lifts Quinn gently from my chest and offers her to Easton.

He scrubs a hand over his face, as if trying to pull himself together, then carefully sinks into the chair beside the isolette. His hands dwarf the blanket as the nurse guides Quinn into his arms.

The moment she settles against his chest, his whole body stills. His shoulders shake once, a ragged breath breaking loose, as he bends his head close to hers.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispers, voice raw. “I’m your daddy. And I promise, I’m never leaving you again.”

My throat burns. Watching him cradle her, watching his tears fall onto her blanket, it’s like witnessing something holy.

Finally, for the first time since she was born, the darkness in my chest shifts.

Maybe we can do this.

Maybe we already are.