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We chose the name together. My aunt's middle name and Leah's, two women woven into the history of the people we love. I keep repeating it in my head, trying to understand that this little girl belongs to us. That she is ours to raise, to protect, to teach, to love.

That Anna carried her here.

God, Anna. I don't think I'll ever fully understand how strong that woman is.

I knew she was strong before any of this. I'd seen her stand up to people who had spent her entire life telling her what she should want. I'd watched her question the world she'd been raised in and decide for herself which parts deserved to remain. I'd seen her walk away from a future that looked perfect to everyone else because it wasn't the future she wanted.

But loving her through this pregnancy taught me something different about strength.

It wasn't a grand gesture. It wasn't a speech about fighting or refusing to give up. It was Anna waking up frightened and still asking the specialist her questions. It was her listening to answers she didn't want, making decisions she never expected to make, and finding the courage to face the next appointment even after the last one left her in tears.

It was the way she learned to live with uncertainty without letting it take every good thing from her.

The first months were a blur of appointments, conversations, and waiting. We learned the difference between hope and certainty. We learned that a reassuring appointment didn't mean we could stop worrying, and a difficult day didn't mean we had lost everything we'd been working toward.

We made plans. Then we changed them.

When the specialist recommended a cerclage, the procedure to help keep her cervix closed, we talked through what it meant, what the risks were, and what the next months might look like. The procedure was done around thirteen weeks, and I remember how carefully she listened to every instruction afterward. I remember the way she held my hand when she was afraid, and the way she squeezed it harder when she needed me to stop looking at her like she might break.

The bed rest was harder.

Anna has never been someone who enjoys sitting still while the world moves around her. She likes to do things herself. She likes having a plan, knowing what comes next, being able to make decisions without asking permission from anyone.

Bed rest took so much of that away.

There were days when she was restless enough to make both of us miserable. Days when she wanted to get up and do something ordinary, anything that reminded her she was still herself and not just a patient waiting for the next appointment. There were afternoons when she'd stare out the window and tell me she was going to lose her mind if she had to spend another day in bed.

I learned when to make her laugh, when to bring her something to do, and when to sit beside her without trying to fix the feeling.

I also learned that taking care of her didn't mean treating her like she was helpless. Anna never needed me to make her decisions. She needed me to stand beside her while she made them, even when I was terrified of what those decisions might mean.

And I was terrified.

There were nights when I lay awake listening to her breathe, my mind running through every possible outcome until I couldn't tell the difference between preparing myself and torturing myself. I wanted to protect her from every bad thing that could happen. I wanted to bargain with anyone who might be listening. I wanted guarantees.

There weren't any.

We had to make another decision about where we would have the baby.

Germany offered the familiarity to Anna, the support from Oma she'd known all her life, and a medical system she understood. The United States offered the specialists who had been following her care, the continuity we'd established, and the life we'd built together in Chicago. Neither choice was simple. Neither came without sacrifices.

We spent hours talking through the options. We spoke to the doctors. We considered travel, medical records, the timing of appointments, and what would happen if something changed while we were away from the team who knew her history.

I watched Anna weigh everything with that fierce concentration she gets when the decision matters too much to leave to anyone else.

We didn't choose Germany because it was familiar, and we didn't choose the United States because it was convenient. We had to work out what was safest and most practical for her and the baby, and what kind of support we would need wherever we ended up.

In the end, we found a way to have both.

Germany remained part of our plan. Off-season, with her family. Lenzin, Hildy, Lucy and their twin boys, Oma, my aunt, the people who loved her, the place that would always be a part of her- none of that had to disappear just because we were building our life in America. We even dined with her parents on occasion after Anna told them what she expected and what would happen if they didn’t respect her boundaries. I am so fucking proud of her.

We made room for the people and places that mattered without abandoning the care and stability we'd established in Chicago.

And when the final weeks arrived, we were here for hockey.

We stayed in Chicago, close to the doctors who knew her, close to the hospital where we'd planned for our daughter's arrival, close to the life we'd made ours.

By then, I'd stopped counting the days by how much longer we had to wait and started counting them by the small things Anna could do without fear taking over. A good appointment. A day when she felt more like herself. An evening when we could talk about our daughter without either of us going quiet at the thought of everything that might still go wrong.