The house smelled faintly of lavender and warmed milk. The air was still, except for the soft rustle of swaddled fabric and the quiet, rhythmic breathing of a newborn tucked against June's chest. Morning had just broken, and the world hadn't quite caught up yet. It was June's favorite time—the in-between hours where nothing was expected of her except to simply be.
Clara had finally drifted to sleep after what felt like hours of fussing. June rocked gently on the edge of the bed, watching light bleed slowly through the linen curtains. It was hard to believe her daughter was here—real, small, impossibly whole.
But motherhood wasn't just awe. It was exhaustion, too. June's bones ached. Her hair was always damp from quick showers or milk dribbles, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten something with both hands.
Still, every time Clara curled her fingers around June's thumb, every gurgle and sigh, made the world tilt back into balance.
Hank entered quietly, barefoot, holding a mug of tea and a small plate of toast.
"You're a saint," she whispered.
"I'm a man who knows how to earn points," he replied with a grin, setting the tray on the bedside table.
She laughed tiredly and leaned against his shoulder as he sat beside her. Clara stirred but didn't wake.
"You didn't sleep again," he said softly.
"Neither did she."
Hank kissed the top of her head. "You're doing better than you think."
June nodded slowly. "Sometimes I feel like I'm unraveling and stitching myself back together in the same breath."
He held her tighter. "I think that's what being a mother is."
Just then, June's phone buzzed on the nightstand. She reached for it, careful not to disturb Clara. The message was from Ava.
I'm craving something awful and cheesy. Can I come over and be a sleepy pregnant lump on your couch?
June smiled.
Only if you bring donuts.
Deal. See you in 30.
She set the phone down and looked at Hank."Ava's coming over. We're going to be emotional blobs together."
"Perfect," Hank said. "I'll clear the couch of Legos and baby socks."
By mid-morning, Ava was curled into the corner of June's couch, wrapped in a knitted blanket, one hand on her small but growing belly, the other holding a still-warm croissant from the bakery near town. June sat cross-legged opposite her, Clara sleeping in a wrap around her chest like a tiny, breathing accessory.
"You're glowing," Ava said with a lopsided smile.
June snorted. "I'm leaking from everywhere and haven't worn real pants in two weeks."
"Still glowing," Ava insisted.
June looked at her friend—her sister in all but blood. Ava's face was softer, her eyes a little shinier, her hands constantly cradling her middle even though her bump was barely there. There was something different about her now—gentler, perhaps. Or maybe it was just the knowledge that their journeys had come full circle.
"How are you really?" June asked.
Ava hesitated. "Tired. Nauseous. Weirdly emotional. Jamie cried at a baby sock yesterday and I cried because he cried."
June chuckled knowingly.
"But also…" Ava looked down at her belly. "I'm grateful in a way I can't put into words. And scared, too. Like—what if something goes wrong? What if I'm too tired to be present for both Thomas and the baby? What if the house is never clean again and Jamie starts dressing himself like a wild raccoon?"
"Newsflash," June said, deadpan. "The house will never be clean again. And Jamie has always dressed like a wild raccoon."
Ava laughed, covering her mouth, and then suddenly, tears welled in her eyes.
"I don't know why I'm crying again."
June scooted closer and took her hand. "Because your hormones are marching through your body like a parade."
Ava nodded. "I just… I'm so glad you're here. I don't feel like I'm doing this alone."
"You're not," June said. "And neither am I."
They sat together like that for a while—two mothers in different stages of the same journey. The soft coo of Clara filled the spaces between words. June stroked her daughter's back, then asked, "Do you ever think about how far we've come?"
Ava looked out the window. "All the time."
"I used to wonder if I'd ever be okay without a baby in my arms. And now that she's here… I'm realizing okay isn't a place. It's a moment. A person. A warm cup of tea in the morning when everything else is chaos."
Ava nodded slowly. "I think okay is someone telling you, 'You don't have to have it together to be doing this right.'"
They looked at each other and smiled.
Later, when Clara was fussing and June tried to get up, Ava beat her to it.
"I got her," Ava said. "Sit. Eat. Your toast is still warm."
June looked skeptical. "You sure?"
"Let me practice," Ava said, gently lifting Clara into her arms. "I need to remember what it's like to hold something this small."
She rocked the baby slowly, walking around the living room in slow steps, humming a lullaby June didn't even realize she'd been humming during the early hours.
"You're a natural," June said with a soft smile.
Ava's eyes shimmered. "She's perfect."
"She's exhausting," June replied.
"Exhausting and perfect," Ava agreed.
They laughed again—mothers now, not just friends. Their lives had changed, rearranged around the tiny humans who needed them. But even amid diaper changes, late-night feedings, cravings, and hormonal tears, their friendship remained the bedrock.
Clara sighed and nestled into Ava's chest.
"She likes you," June whispered.
"She knows her godmother has good taste in lullabies."
As Clara slept again, and the sun rose higher through the windows, June leaned back and closed her eyes for the first time all day. She let the warmth of Ava's voice, the steadiness of the moment, and the rare quiet of motherhood wash over her.
In this moment, they were okay. In this moment, there was grace.
And beneath the roof of this small house—with love written into every corner, and the tree outside whispering through the wind—they knew they would keep showing up for each other. As mothers. As women. As family.