The house was quiet when the first contraction hit.
It was just after 4:00 a.m., and Ava had been dozing in the warm cocoon of the blankets, one hand curled beneath her pillow, the other resting protectively over her belly. She stirred, brow furrowing as a low ache pulsed through her abdomen. It wasn't the Braxton Hicks kind—those had been routine visitors in the past weeks. This was different. This had weight, rhythm.
She took a slow breath, then gently nudged Jamie, whose arm was draped across her waist.
"Jamie."
He woke instantly, years of parenting having sharpened his instincts.
"What is it?" His voice was groggy but alert.
"I think it's time," Ava said softly.
Jamie sat up, fully awake now. "How far apart?"
"About twenty minutes. But strong. Different." She exhaled slowly, riding out another ripple. "Not panic-time. But definitely go-time."
Jamie slid out of bed and began their quiet, familiar ritual: pulling the overnight bag to the door, texting June, who would come stay with Thomas, and boiling water for tea that neither of them would drink.
Down the hall, Thomas stirred in his sleep but didn't wake. Ava tiptoed in, sat beside him, and kissed his forehead. Her hand lingered on his back as he breathed deeply, unaware that when he awoke, everything would be different.
By sunrise, June had arrived in slippers and a messy bun, Clara still half-asleep against her shoulder. She hugged Ava tightly and whispered, "You've got this, Mama."
The hospital was calm, the early hour lending a kind of sacred quiet to the hallways. Ava was admitted quickly, her chart familiar, her midwife smiling warmly.
"You ready to meet this little girl?" she asked.
Ava nodded, gripping Jamie's hand.
Labor moved steadily, like a tide rolling in. Hours blurred. The world narrowed to breath, pain, focus, and Jamie's unwavering presence at her side. He whispered encouragement, wiped sweat from her brow, and kissed her temple each time she faltered.
By late afternoon, the room was filled with light from the high windows. Ava, eyes clenched, let out a deep cry—half strength, half surrender—and then everything shifted.
A baby's cry rose into the air, sharp and pure.
Ava collapsed back against the bed, eyes brimming. Jamie, stunned and breathless, cut the cord with shaking hands.
"She's here," he whispered. "Ava, she's perfect."
The nurse placed the baby against Ava's chest, her skin soft and flushed, a tiny wail rising before settling into stillness at her mother's heartbeat.
Ava stared at her daughter—tiny, beautiful, fierce. Her eyes fluttered open, deep and dark, and for a moment, the world paused.
"Welcome home, little one," Ava whispered.
Jamie kissed both of them, a quiet sob catching in his throat.
They named her Maeve Eleanor Harper.
Later that evening, the hospital room was quiet except for the gentle hum of the monitoring machines. Ava held Maeve, her body sore but her heart impossibly full. Jamie sat beside her, his hand curled around their daughter's impossibly small fingers.
There was a knock at the door. June peeked in, eyes sparkling.
"I come bearing a big brother," she said, stepping aside so Thomas could run in, his eyes wide with awe.
Ava's arms opened. "Hey, buddy."
Thomas climbed up gently, staring at the baby in her arms.
"She's so small," he whispered.
"She was waiting for you," Jamie said.
Thomas leaned close and kissed Maeve's forehead. "Hi, I'm your brother. I'll read you stories and share my pancakes sometimes. But not always."
Everyone laughed gently.
June stepped closer, Clara sleeping against her shoulder. "She's beautiful."
Ava looked at her best friend and said, "You know that promise we made? That we'd walk into motherhood side by side?"
June smiled. "We kept it."
That night, after everyone left, and Maeve was asleep in her bassinet, Ava wrote a letter by the window light. The paper was slightly creased, her handwriting slower than usual, her fingers trembling with wonder.
My darling Maeve,
Today you opened your eyes, and the world became brighter.
I want you to know that you were loved before you took your first breath. That your father wept the moment he saw you. That your brother leaned over and made a promise to protect you with stories and sticky pancakes.
That your mother—me—held you and realized she still had more room in her heart than she thought possible.
You are not our first miracle, but you are a new one. A light in the morning. A piece of all that is good in this world.
We can't wait to show you how much love is waiting for you beneath the oak tree.
She folded the letter and placed it in a small envelope labeled To Maeve, When You're Old Enough to Understand. Then she placed it gently in the drawer beside the hospital bed.
As she curled up beside Jamie, Maeve resting between them in a dream-like sleep, Ava whispered into the night, "She's going to change us."
Jamie held her hand. "She already has."