I was days away from my due date when I caught my husband dismantling our custom-built crib. “My sister needs it more, she’s having twins,” he grunted, loading it into his truck.

Alive.

That was the first victory.

Tiny, furious, wrapped in a pink hospital blanket, she screamed as if she already knew the world owed her an apology. I named her Nora before Evan ever arrived.

He showed up carrying flowers from the hospital gift shop with Patricia trailing behind him in pearls.

“Mia,” he said, reaching toward my hand. “God, you scared us.”