The morning June went into labor, the sky was a trembling silver. A soft drizzle kissed the petals of the letter garden, and the oak tree stood solemnly, like a guardian of secrets and seasons. June sat at the kitchen table, her hands curled around a cup of peppermint tea, when the first contraction took her breath away.
It wasn't pain at first—just a tightening, like her body drawing inward.
She looked up at Hank, who was flipping pancakes. "Hey," she said calmly. "I think today's the day."
He dropped the spatula. "What? Are you sure?"
"I've had three in the last twenty minutes," she said, exhaling slowly. "It's early labor, I think. Don't panic."
But Hank was already pacing, muttering about the hospital bag, the car, the phone charger, snacks, socks—why did every father in every story forget socks?
June chuckled. "Hank ," she said gently, reaching out. "Breathe."
He knelt beside her. "You're doing this. We're doing this."
A few hours later, Ava arrived with Thomas in tow. June had decided months ago that she wanted Ava with her in the delivery room—not just as a best friend, but as a sister in spirit. She knew Ava had been through the waves of birth, the agony and ecstasy, and somehow emerged with both wisdom and softness.
"You ready?" Ava asked, hugging her tightly.
June winced through another contraction. "Ready as I'll ever be."
Thomas stood on tiptoe and kissed June's belly. "Be brave, baby. We'll be waiting."
The hospital room was quiet but alive with tension. The walls seemed to hum with every exhale. June clutched Hank's hand through each contraction, her knuckles white, her breath jagged. Ava stood on the other side, cool cloths and calming words at the ready.
"It's like a wave," Ava whispered during one particularly long one. "Just ride it. Don't fight."
June gritted her teeth, eyes squeezed shut. "This wave feels like it wants to drown me."
"You're almost there," Hank said, brushing back damp strands of hair. "You're doing incredible."
Hours passed. The sky outside shifted from pale gray to deep indigo. In that in-between space—when time folds in on itself—June felt the first real urge to push. Nurses hurried in, and the room filled with the electric hush of anticipation.
"You're doing it, June," Ava murmured, her voice thick with tears.
With Hank's voice in one ear and Ava's in the other, June bore down and screamed, not in pain but in power. A final push, a sound that split the air—and then silence.
A breathless second. Two.
And then a cry.
A shrill, beautiful wail that echoed like music through the room.
The nurse held up a red-faced, wriggling bundle. "It's a girl!" she announced.
June collapsed into Hank's arms, sobbing and laughing all at once.
"A girl," she whispered. "We have a daughter."
They placed the baby on June's chest. She was warm and slick and perfect. Ten fingers. Ten toes. A crown of dark curls. Her cry softened into a hiccup as June whispered, "Hi. Hi, my little miracle."
Hank bent down, kissed both their foreheads. "You're both everything."
Ava wiped her eyes, unable to speak.
Back at Eliza House the next day, Jamie and Thomas waited with balloons, flowers, and a handmade banner that read:
WELCOME BABY BUTTERFLY!
Thomas had insisted on the nickname sticking until they revealed her real name.
When the car pulled into the driveway, Thomas sprinted to the porch, nearly tripping over his own shoes.
June stepped out first, holding the baby, swaddled in soft lavender. Hank followed close behind with their bags, looking like he hadn't slept in years and never wanted to again.
"She's here!" Thomas said in awe.
June bent so he could peek at the baby.
"She smells like… clouds," he whispered.
Ava stepped out from the doorway and wrapped June in a careful hug. "You did it."
"No," June smiled, tears already forming. "We did."
They gathered in the sunroom, soft music playing in the background, while the baby—now officially named Clara Eliza Monroe—slept peacefully in a Moses basket. Hank chose Clara for its meaning: bright and clear. June added Eliza as a tribute to the woman who'd stitched their stories together.
"I feel like I've known her forever," Jamie said, watching Clara sleep. "Like she's always belonged."
"She has," June said. "She was just waiting for the right moment."
Later, Thomas tiptoed to the letter garden with Ava beside him. He knelt by the newest rosebush and held a folded letter in his palm.
Dear Clara,
You're my god-sister, which means I get to protect you. You don't have to be afraid of monsters. I already checked under the bed.
I hope you like cookies, stories, and painting, because I'm very good at those.
When you're big, I'll show you this garden. It's where your mom wrote to you. It's where love grows.
Love,
Thomas.
He tucked the note beneath the mulch, careful and proud.
Ava kissed the top of his head. "You're already an amazing big brother."
"I'm just practicing," he said, eyes twinkling. "In case I have a sister of my own someday."
Ava's breath caught, her hand instinctively brushing her belly—a motion she didn't understand yet, not fully.
Jamie watched from the porch, a quiet knowing in his eyes.
That night, as stars blinked above Eliza House, June rocked Clara beside the window. Hank dozed on the couch, utterly spent, while the sounds of life drifted through the old house—Thomas laughing in his sleep, Ava humming as she folded baby clothes, the wind rustling the letters in the garden.
Clara opened her eyes briefly—soft, searching, new.
June leaned down and whispered, "You're part of a story that started long before you. But it's yours now. And we'll help you write every chapter."
The baby sighed, her tiny fist curling against June's collarbone.
Outside, the oak tree swayed.
A letter slipped slightly in the breeze, buried but not forgotten.
And the house exhaled a gentle breath of welcome.