Epilogue Nate
Five months later
"He's perfect," Dr. Martinez announced, placing our son on Tasha's chest. "Absolutely perfect."
Oliver James Crawford—Paige had won the name debate through sheer persistence and the logical argument that "Oliver Newton" flowed better than any of our other combinations—was red-faced and furious and the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
"He's so little," Tasha whispered, tears streaming down her face as she touched his tiny fist. "And so mad."
"He gets that from you," I managed, my own voice thick with emotion.
"The mad part or the little part?"
"Definitely the mad part."
Paige, who'd been permitted to wait in the family lounge despite it being well past midnight on a school night, appeared in the doorway with Sophia and Mrs. Swanson flanking her like bodyguards.
"Can I see him?" she asked, her voice unusually small. "Is he okay?"
"He's perfect," Tasha said, shifting carefully so Paige could get a better view. "Come meet your little brother."
I watched Paige approach the bed with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious experiences. When she got her first good look at Oliver, her face went through approximately seventeen different expressions before settling on pure wonder.
"He's so tiny," she breathed. "Look at his fingers! They're like little sausages!"
"Attractive little sausages," I corrected.
"The most attractive little sausages ever," Paige agreed seriously. Then, to Oliver: "Hi, Little Brother. I'm Paige. I'm going to teach you everything I know, which is a lot, so you better be ready to learn."
Oliver chose that moment to open his eyes; dark blue like all newborns, but something about the shape already reminded me of Tasha. He blinked owlishly at Paige, and I swear his expression suggested he was already resigned to whatever his big sister had planned for him.
"I think he likes me," Paige said with satisfaction.
"He'd better," Tasha said. "You're going to be his favorite person in about a year when he realizes you're the one who'll sneak him extra cookies."
"I would never," Paige said with mock indignation, then immediately added, "Okay, I totally would."
Mrs. Swanson stepped forward with the blue-bordered blanket she'd knitted, the one she'd hinted about at the baby shower. Up close, I could see tiny embroidered sailboats along the edges, a nod to my Navy service that made my throat tight.
"For Master Oliver," she said formally, then broke into a grin. "Though I suspect he's going to be running the household within a week."
"He's a Crawford," Sophia observed from the doorway. "Of course he's going to be running things."
The next few hours passed in a blur of visitors and phone calls and the surreal adjustment to being a family of four instead of three.
My mother-in-law (and wasn't that still a strange and wonderful phrase!) arrived with enough flowers to stock a florist shop.
Maria showed up with coffee and gossip from the ER.
Even Drs. Lee and Ward made a brief appearance, the former looking slightly uncomfortable and the latter ecstatic, both offering genuine congratulations.
But it was the quiet moments I treasured most. Watching Tasha nurse Oliver for the first time, both of them figuring it out together.
Seeing Paige hold her brother with the careful concentration of someone entrusted with the most precious cargo in the world.
The way Oliver's tiny hand wrapped around my finger like he was already claiming me as his dad.
"No second thoughts?" Tasha asked during one of the rare moments when it was just the four of us.
"About what?"
"Going from one kid to two. Losing all pretense of having your life together."
I looked around the hospital room, at our son sleeping peacefully in his bassinet, at Paige curled up in the chair reading a book about baby development she'd checked out from the library, at the woman who'd turned my carefully controlled world upside down in the best possible way.
"Not a single one," I said honestly. "This is exactly where I'm supposed to be."
"Even when he's screaming at 3 AM and Paige has a science project due the next day and I'm covered in spit-up and questioning all our life choices?"
"Especially then."
She smiled, the soft, tired smile of a woman who'd just brought life into the world. "Good answer."
Three days later, we brought Oliver home to a house that had been transformed by Paige's enthusiastic preparations.
She'd made a "Welcome Home, Little Brother" banner that covered most of the living room wall.
The nursery was perfectly organized, every outfit sorted by size, every book arranged by reading level for when he was older.
"I've prepared a schedule," Paige announced, producing a color-coded chart that would have impressed a Marine drill instructor. "Feeding times, nap times, tummy time, reading time—"
"Paige," I interrupted gently, "babies don't really follow schedules for the first few months."
She looked genuinely confused. "But how will he know what he's supposed to be doing?"
"He'll figure it out," Tasha said, settling into the rocking chair with Oliver. "Trust me, he'll let us know what he needs."
As if to prove her point, Oliver chose that moment to start fussing. Paige immediately sprang into action, consulting her chart.
"According to my calculations, he's not due for feeding for another hour, but maybe he needs a diaper change? Or tummy time? Oh! Maybe he wants me to read to him!"
"Maybe he just wants to complain about being evicted from his warm, cozy apartment," I suggested.
"That's fair," Paige conceded. "I'd probably complain too."
That first week was everything people warned you about and somehow still a complete surprise. The sleep deprivation, the constant laundry, the way Oliver could go from peacefully sleeping to screaming like his world was ending in approximately 0.3 seconds.
But it was also magic in ways I hadn't expected.
The way Paige appointed herself Oliver's official translator, providing running commentary on what she thought he was trying to communicate.
The sight of Tasha, sleep-deprived and wearing one of my old college t-shirts, singing lullabies at 4 AM like she'd been doing it her whole life.
The moment Oliver first smiled—probably gas, but we all chose to believe it was genuine—and Paige nearly cried with excitement.
"He smiled at me!" she announced to everyone who would listen. "I made him smile! I'm officially the best big sister ever!"
"You definitely are," I agreed, watching her show Oliver a book about the solar system, complete with sound effects for each planet.
Two weeks in, as I sat in the nursery during a late-night feeding, Oliver in my arms and the house finally quiet, I thought about how much had changed since that first day Tasha had walked into the ER.
I'd been so afraid then. Afraid of letting anyone in, afraid of disrupting the careful balance I'd built with Paige, afraid that opening my heart would just lead to more loss.
Now, listening to my son's soft breathing and knowing my daughter was safely asleep down the hall and my wife—wife, we'd have to do something about that soon—was finally getting some rest, I realized that fear had been the biggest enemy all along.
Not Sarah's lawyers or custody battles or the thousand daily challenges of raising children. Just fear. Fear of believing I deserved this kind of happiness, this kind of love, this kind of family.
Oliver stirred in my arms, making the soft snuffling sounds that Paige insisted meant he was dreaming about rockets. His eyes opened briefly, unfocused but somehow seeming to see me anyway.
"Hey there, buddy," I whispered. "Welcome to the family. We're all a little crazy, but we love real big and we don't give up on each other. I think you're going to like it here."
His tiny hand curled around my finger again, and I felt that same overwhelming surge of protectiveness I'd felt the first time I'd held Paige. The bone-deep certainty that I would do anything, sacrifice anything, fight anyone to keep this small person safe.
But this time, I wasn't facing it alone. This time, I had partners in the fight. This time, I had a family that chose each other every single day, through sleepless nights and scary mornings and all the beautiful, chaotic, perfectly imperfect moments in between.
"Three Little Birds" came drifting softly from down the hall—Tasha's voice, singing the lullaby she'd heard me sing to Paige that first night she'd stayed over. The night that had changed everything.
I smiled, holding my son a little closer, and realized Bob Marley had been right all along.
Everything was going to be alright.
Everything already was.
THE END