Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Rachel blinks.
I wheeze.
But it’s the breathing exercises that stop us both cold.
We’re told to sit face-to-face and practice the rhythm of labor breathing—me inhaling, him guiding the exhale, matching the tempo. It’s meant to build trust.
The second our eyes lock, it gets too real.
He sees the pain I’m holding back. The fear that he won’t be there. The panic I won’t let myself name out loud.
And I see his.
But we do it anyway.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
And we’re a team again.
Maybe the strongest one I’ve ever known.
One night, I catch him curled in the nursery rocker, staring at the half-built crib.
He’s thinner now. Hollow-cheeked. Still strong, but fighting for every ounce of energy.
“You okay?” I ask from the doorway.
“Just thinking.”
I walk in, sit sideways on his lap despite the awkwardness of my belly between us.
He groans. “Woman, you are solid now.”
“Don’t complain,” I tease, kissing his cheek. “I still make your green death smoothies.”
He huffs a tired laugh.
After a moment, he says, “I want to be here when the baby takes his first steps.”
“You will.”
“I want to take them on him first ride.”
“You will.”
“I want to teach them how to be good. And brave. And whole.”
My voice breaks. “You will!”
But inside, I wonder. I spend more time in the kitchen now. Cooking keeps my hands busy. My mind focused. My heart from sinking.
I print out recipes and write little notes on them in ink. Things like: He liked this one—made a face but cleaned the bowl. Or too spicy, scale back pepper next time.
I don’t know why I do it.
Maybe because I’m terrified there might be a time when I have to remember everything.
And I can’t risk forgetting even the smallest thing.
One night, after a rough treatment leaves him too weak to get out of bed, I find a soft lullaby on my phone and curl beside him with my head on his chest.
“Tell me a story,” I whisper.
“What kind?”
“Any kind. One where you live.”
He pulls me closer and tells me about a house by a lake, the sound of gravel under tires, our baby learning to ride a balance bike with training wheels.
He describes the wind. The peace. The laughter.
And I close my eyes and try to believe it’s real. We’re building a life out of broken pieces.
Patch by patch.
Day by day.
And some days are harder than others.
But every morning he wakes up beside me, I thank whatever’s out there listening.
Because he’s still here.
And so am I.
The next day starts with BW showing up uninvited and absolutely smug about it.
He’s standing on the porch, holding a bag of groceries in one arm and a bouquet of mismatched flowers in the other.
“Toon said you were craving peanut butter. I brought peanut butter. And bagels. And some random yogurt Karsci swears is ‘good for pregnancy bowels.’” He makes a face. “Whatever that means.”
I can’t help but laugh.
BW may look like trouble and talk like sarcasm wrapped in denim, but the man’s got a soft spot a mile wide.
“Toon’s asleep,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. “Bad night.”
BW nods. “He told me. Nausea again?”
“Worse than usual. He couldn’t keep water down.”
BW’s smile fades. He sets the groceries on the kitchen counter and glances toward the hallway.
“Want me to check on him?”
“Let him rest,” I say quietly. “He fought all night just to breathe without groaning.”
That silence settles between us. The one that’s full of fear neither of us wants to name.
BW claps his hands once. “Alright. I’m organizing the pantry.”
I blink. “You’re what now?”
“Pantry. Baby’s coming soon. You’re nesting, he’s dying—sorry, maybe dying,” he adds quickly when I flinch, “—and someone has to keep this damn house from imploding. I pick me.” This is my brother. When he feels like things are beyond his control, he finds something to control. In this case, it’s my pantry apparently.
He pulls open cabinets and mutters to himself about expiration dates. I sit on the stool and try not to cry.
They all start showing up like that.
Not just BW.
Tank stops by the next day with a handmade mobile for the nursery, little felt motorcycles and stars that spin gently when the fan’s on.
“I don’t know what babies like these days, my boys are grown,” he says, awkward as hell. “But I figured stars are peaceful, and bikes are, well. Us.”
I hug him. He panics and nearly drops the damn thing.
Then there’s my mom, who shows up with a notebook full of “emergency contact lists,” printed schedules, doctor’s notes, and instructions for how to swaddle with one hand.
“This baby will not arrive in chaos,” she declares.
I don’t have the heart to tell her this baby is literally being born into chaos.
Kylee comes too, shy but steady. She’s Red’s ol’ lady and truly one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. She has always been my favorite at the produce stand, even before she fell in love with a Hellion. She brings a playlist of lullabies and asks me to promise to play them when I rock the baby at night.