Page 58 of Glass Wings

“You’ll need to track every feeding and diaper change,” she says, her tone brisk but kind. “Keep an eye on her temperature. If it drops, call us immediately. She needs to sleep on her back. No blankets, and no pillows in the crib.”

My head spins. I can barely remember to eat breakfast most days. How was I supposed to remember all of this?

Easton sits upright beside me, pen in hand, jotting notes like his life depends on it. He nods at every word, asking questions I hadn’t thought of.

“What about tummy time? How do we handle reflux? How often do we wake her if she sleeps too long?”

The nurse smiles, answering each one, and I want to sink into the floor with relief. At least one of us has it together.

Then she wheels in a tiny car seat. Quinn is already buckled inside, her body dwarfed by the straps and padding. She looks impossibly small, but so … real. No tubes, no wires. Just a pink hat snug on her head as her chest rises and falls on its own.

I reach out, fingers trembling and brush the back of her hand. Her skin is soft, warm, and she stirs slightly at my touch.

“She’s really coming home,” I whisper, almost afraid to say it out loud.

“She is,” Easton says, his voice low and reverent. He bends down, kisses her tiny forehead, and then turns to me. “We’ve got this, Little Bird. You and me against the world, remember?”

I nod, though my heart still thunders with fear.

Walking out of the hospital feels different this time. Back then, my arms were empty, my body hollowed out. Now, Easton carries the car seat in one hand with the diaper bag slung over his shoulder like it’s nothing. We’re a walking TikTok trend that I’m sure Kennedy would have loved to capture.

I walk beside him, slower than I want, but steadier than before. My hand brushes the side of the seat every few steps, just to reassure myself she is still there. People glance at us as we pass, some smiling at the sight of the tiny bundle, others too wrapped up in their own worlds to notice.

It doesn’t bother me like it would have before.

In the car, Easton buckles the seat with a precision that makes me laugh through my tears. He tugs each strap and double-checks every angle.

“Safe?” I ask, trying to sound lighter than I feel.

He smirks, though his eyes shine. “She’s not going anywhere.”

When I slide into the back seat, I tug my belt on and turn to watch Quinn’s chest rise and fall. She looks peaceful, unaware of the storm she’s already lived through.

Easton starts the car, watching us through the rearview mirror, his blue eyes tired … yet the biggest grin tugs at his lips.

And with Quinn breathing steady in the back seat, we drive home as a family.

Twenty-Eight

EASTON

Eight Weeks Later

A lot has happened in the last couple of weeks, so much so, in fact, that it feels impossible to keep up. It’s been eight weeks since I was released from jail. Eight weeks since Quinn entered the world too soon, her tiny body swallowed by tubes and wires, machines breathing for her when she couldn’t. Eight weeks since I thought I might lose not only my daughter but the woman I love in the same breath. Eight weeks since I held Harley under the shower while she sobbed into my chest, her body trembling against mine like she might shatter if I let go.

In those eight weeks, I learned what it meant to be terrified of every waking moment, yet still move anyway. I learned that strength wasn’t about fists or anger or survival; it was about pushing forward when fear clawed at your throat. Because someone needed you.

Quinn needed me.

Harley needed me.

I find them in the nursery, like always.

The apartment is quiet except for the faint creak of the rocking chair and Quinn’s soft breaths against Harley’s chest. The lamp in the corner throws a golden glow across the room, turning Harley’s hair into something almost halo-like.

Six weeks ago, Harley couldn’t look at Quinn without crying. She’d whispered that she wasn’t a mother, that she was broken, that Quinn deserved better. But now? Now she sits steadily in the chair, humming some lullaby I don’t recognize, as her palm cups our daughter’s head with a confidence that wasn’t there before.

Her eyes are heavy, ringed with dark circles, as Quinn suckles softly.