Page 57 of Glass Wings

“Oh my God,” I whisper, pressing closer to the glass. “Easton, look. Look at her.”

But he’s already leaning in. His hand lands on my shoulder, his voice breaks with awe when he says, “Harley … she’s got my eyes.”

Quinn blinks again, unfocused, her tiny mouth twitching like she’s still deciding whether to cry or not. But I can’t stop staring at those eyes. They feel like proof that she’s fighting, that she’s been stitched together from the best parts of both of us.

Tears blur my vision, and I let them fall freely. “Hi, baby girl,” I whisper, my palm flat to the glass. “I see you. I see you.”

It’s been a week. Seven days since Quinn opened her eyes for the first time. Seven days of round-the-clock pumping, hospital visits, and trying to convince myself I was strong enough for this.

Quinn grows stronger each day. The nurses chart every ounce she gains, every feeding she manages without her oxygen dropping … every milestone that pushes her closer to leaving the NICU. While I hold my breath and keep praying for my baby girl to pull through like everyone keeps telling me she will.

And then, suddenly, the good news comes. The day I’ve been waiting for is here.

Discharge day.

I should be glowing, elated, bouncing with joy. Instead, my chest is a battlefield. Excitement and fear war with guilt so heavy it pins me to the chair in the therapist’s office that morning. Easton begged me to come here, to finally talk through everything that was weighing me down, and I didn’t know how to tell him the truth—that my mind isn’t quiet. It’s a chorus of voices I can’t shut off.

One whispers every time I look in the mirror, tracing the new stretch marks across my skin. Don’t eat, you’re fat, you’re ugly, he’ll never want you like this.

Another hisses every time Easton walks into the room. He’s only here because he feels guilty. Eventually he’ll realize he doesn’t have to stay, and he’ll walk away.

But the cruelest voice was the one chanting over and over. You’re a failure, you’ll fail her too. Your daughter deserves better than you.

My chest tightens as I sit on that soft couch, the therapist’s pen moving quietly across her notepad. Easton’s hand is a steady weight on mine. For a moment, I think about keeping it all inside, the way I always do. I’ll swallow it down until it turns me hollow inside.

But instead, I finally let the words slip out. “There are so many voices in my head, and I don’t know which one to fight first.”

Easton’s grip tightens instantly, his thumb stroking circles into my palm like he can anchor me through the storm.

The therapist leans forward, her voice calm but firm. “Harley, those voices are not the truth. They’re the echoes of fear and pain. Naming them is the first step toward taking their power away. You’re here, and that means you’re stronger than they want you to believe.”

I want to believe her. But the voices don’t stop just because I say them out loud.

I glance at Easton. His jaw is tight, eyes burning with the kind of pain that comes from loving someone you can’t fix.

He lifts my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles, and whispers, “We’ll fight them together. Every damn one.”

The room is warm, with the faint scent of lavender flowing around us, but all I feel is restlessness. The tissue in my hands is shredded from where I’ve been twisting it between my fingers, and my knees bounce in a rhythm I can’t stop.

Across from me, the therapist smiles gently. “Harley, last week you were terrified you’d never get Quinn home. Now she’s ready to be discharged. I can see you’re struggling. Tell me what’s going through your head.”

I bite my lip, staring down at the mangled tissue in my lap. “What if I can’t do it? What if I bring her home and she cries, and I can’t figure out why? What if I’m too tired and I miss something important?”

Her pen taps softly against her notebook, but her voice stays calm. “Every new mother feels this way. You’re not failing motherhood by having fears. You’re human. What matters is you’re here, naming them, and asking for help.”

My throat tightens. “I don’t feel human. I feel … broken. Like my body has failed her. She wasn’t supposed to come this early. And now she’s tiny and fragile and everything depends on me. I can barely keep myself together. How am I supposed to keep her alive?”

The silence stretches, broken only by the soft sound of Easton’s thumb rubbing slow circles against my palm. He’s sat next to me every session, big and quiet, a steady wall when I felt like a crack in the floor. He speaks now, his voice rough but certain.

“You’re not broken,” he says, eyes fixed on me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world. “You’re healing. And Quinn doesn’t need perfect. She just needs you.”

The therapist smiles softly. “Sometimes, Harley, strength doesn’t look like having it all together. Sometimes it’s showing up, even when you’re afraid. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing. And you’re not alone. You have Easton. You have your family. You have me. We’ll keep building tools to help you through this.”

My vision blurs, tears sliding hot down my cheeks. I want to believe her. I want to believe Easton. But all I can manage is a whispered, “Okay.”

Easton squeezes my hand tighter, and I know he hears what I can’t say. All of it.

By the afternoon, we’re back at the hospital, sitting through discharge instructions. The nurse hands me a folder thick with papers, each one a reminder of how fragile Quinn still is.