Page 56 of Glass Wings

Her shoulders shake under my arm. For a moment, I think she’ll push me away. But then she whispers, so quiet I almost miss it.

“What if they think I’m a bad mom?”

I tighten my hold on her, my voice fierce. “Then they’re not the right person. The right one will see what I see, a woman who loves her baby so much it’s tearing her apart. And they’ll help you see it too.”

Harley finally lifts her head, her eyes swollen and tear tracks glistening. She searches my face for something I don’t know if I have. Then she nods once. Tiny, but real.

“Okay,” she breathes. “I’ll try.”

I kiss her temple, pulling her close again. “That’s all I ask.”

Twenty-Seven

HARLEY

Everything hurt. Not in a surprising way, I’d been warned what recovery would be like, but the ache felt sharper, crueler, because I didn’t have my baby in my arms to make it worth it. The pain would have been more welcome if I could’ve just taken Quinn home like other mother's did.

I want to be in our apartment, curled in that ridiculous plush rocking chair Kennedy and I bought on a whim, holding her against my chest while I healed. Instead, I’m climbing out of the car, forcing my body forward step by aching step, and walking back into the hospital.

The halls stretch, sterile and endless, walls a crisp white that glare under fluorescent lights. My sneakers squeak against the polished floor; it’s so slick I nearly slide more than once.

I shuffle slowly into the NICU beside Easton, one hand braced against his arm, the other hovering near my incision like it might split open if I forget to protect it. Each step aches, but I’d take the ache a hundred times over if it meant I got to be here.

I’m ready to see the same sight as yesterday, even though the doctor told me they were going to wean her off the machines. I don’t fully understand what that means … So I’m still expecting the wires, tubes, steady hiss of oxygen that’s keeping my baby alive.

But when we reach Quinn’s isolette, I almost stumble into Easton.

Her face is clearer. No mask. No tubing taped across her cheeks. Just her tiny nose and perfect lips, pursed like she’s already scowling at the world. Only the thin feeding line remains, taped gently to her skin.

My hand fly’s to my mouth. “Easton, her face.”

He leans close, his arm firm around me like he knows my knees might give out. His breath hitches.

“She’s perfect. Harley, look at her. She’s really perfect.”

I don’t have the words to tell him that even if she looked absolutely hideous, I’d still think she was absolutely perfect, so I just clutch his hand.

Before I can catch my breath, the doctor appears at my side, clipboard tucked against his chest. “She’s been stable on room air for over twelve hours,” he explains, his smile genuine. “So, we discontinued oxygen support this morning. She’s breathing entirely on her own.”

Tears sting my eyes, blurring her tiny body in the isolette. “She doesn’t need the machines anymore?”

“Not for breathing, no,” the doctor says kindly. “That’s a very big milestone for a thirty-four weeker. The next steps are feeding by mouth and maintaining her temperature outside the isolette. Once she can do both consistently, then we’ll start talking about discharge.”

Discharge. The word rattles inside me, so fragile and precious I almost don’t want to believe it, just in case it isn’t true.

Easton squeezes my hand tightly, his eyes shining. “Did you hear that? She’s coming home. Maybe sooner than we thought.”

I press my forehead to the glass, whispering her name. “Quinn, my sweet little angel.” My voice cracks. “Mommy’s here, baby girl.”

She stirs at the sound, one tiny hand curling in the blanket. And for the first time since she was born, the little voice that kept screaming I was a failure, disappears.

I’m still staring at the bare skin of her cheeks, marveling at how free she looks without the oxygen taped across her face, when her eyelids flutter.

At first, I think it’s just a reflex, some twitch she can’ control, but then they lift, slowly, stubbornly, and then two tiny blue eyes blink up at me.

My breath catches in my throat.

They weren’t dull or cloudy like I braced myself for. They were the exact same shade as Easton’s, like the ocean on a perfect day. Endless and clear. The kind of blue you can drown in without regret.