In her arms were the girls.
Two small bundles wrapped in hospital blankets, their faces barely visible at first, but as I stepped closer, drawn forward by something instinctive and undeniable, I could see them more clearly—their tiny features, still adjusting to the world, their eyes unfocused but searching, their movements small and uncertain as if they hadn’t quite figured out how to exist yet. They were real in a way that hit me all at once, not gradually, not gently, but with a kind of quiet force that made it hard to breathe for a second.
For months, I had wondered what they would look like, whose features they would carry, whether I would recognize something of myself in them or if they would feel like entirely new beings, separate from anything I had known before. And now they were right there, close enough that I could see the way one of them shifted slightly, her hand brushing against her sister’s cheek in a motion that felt accidental but somehow meaningful, and yet there was still that barrier, still that distance that made everything feel just out of reach.
I raised my hand without thinking, pressing it flat against the glass, the cool surface grounding me in a way I didn’t expect, and on the other side, one of the girls moved again, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling as if she could sense something she didn’t yet understand. For a moment, I imagined what it would feel like if there were nothing between us, if that small hand could wrap around my finger instead of pressing against an invisible wall, and the thought hit harder than I was prepared for.
“They’ve been waiting,” Lila said, her voice coming through the small speaker embedded in the wall, slightly distorted but still unmistakably hers, carrying a softness that hadn’t changed despite everything we had been through.
I swallowed, realizing my throat had tightened more than I expected. “I’ve been waiting too,” I replied, though the words felt smaller than what I meant, like they couldn’t quite hold the weight of the moment.
She smiled, just a little, the kind of smile that doesn’t try to hide exhaustion but exists alongside it. “They’re calmer when it’s quiet,” she added, adjusting her hold slightly, her movements careful but practiced, as if she had already learned more in a few days than I had in months of anticipation.
