She had dark hair and lungs powerful enough to announce herself to the world. Megan held her like someone who had been holding her breath for years and could finally let go. That first night, she refused to leave the nursery chair, keeping one hand on the bassinet as if touch alone could keep fate from interfering.
The first month was chaotic and beautiful. Bottles everywhere. Half-eaten meals abandoned mid-bite. Exhaustion fueled by love and caffeine. We whispered to each other at night like we were young again, stunned by how completely this tiny human filled our home.
“I can’t believe she’s ours,” Megan said one night, rocking her gently.
“She is,” I whispered. “We earned this.”
I truly believed the hardest part was behind us.
Then one evening, I came home and felt something was wrong. The air itself felt heavy, like the apartment knew something I didn’t.
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