Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
HARLEY
Everything hurt. Not in a surprising way, I’d been warned what recovery would be like, but the ache felt sharper, crueler, because I didn’t have my baby in my arms to make it worth it. The pain would have been more welcome if I could’ve just taken Quinn home like other mother's did.
I want to be in our apartment, curled in that ridiculous plush rocking chair Kennedy and I bought on a whim, holding her against my chest while I healed. Instead, I’m climbing out of the car, forcing my body forward step by aching step, and walking back into the hospital.
The halls stretch, sterile and endless, walls a crisp white that glare under fluorescent lights. My sneakers squeak against the polished floor; it’s so slick I nearly slide more than once.
I shuffle slowly into the NICU beside Easton, one hand braced against his arm, the other hovering near my incision like it might split open if I forget to protect it. Each step aches, but I’d take the ache a hundred times over if it meant I got to be here.
I’m ready to see the same sight as yesterday, even though the doctor told me they were going to wean her off the machines. I don’t fully understand what that means … So I’m still expecting the wires, tubes, steady hiss of oxygen that’s keeping my baby alive.
But when we reach Quinn’s isolette, I almost stumble into Easton.
Her face is clearer. No mask. No tubing taped across her cheeks. Just her tiny nose and perfect lips, pursed like she’s already scowling at the world. Only the thin feeding line remains, taped gently to her skin.
My hand fly’s to my mouth. “Easton, her face.”
He leans close, his arm firm around me like he knows my knees might give out. His breath hitches.
“She’s perfect. Harley, look at her. She’s really perfect.”
I don’t have the words to tell him that even if she looked absolutely hideous, I’d still think she was absolutely perfect, so I just clutch his hand.
Before I can catch my breath, the doctor appears at my side, clipboard tucked against his chest. “She’s been stable on room air for over twelve hours,” he explains, his smile genuine. “So, we discontinued oxygen support this morning. She’s breathing entirely on her own.”
Tears sting my eyes, blurring her tiny body in the isolette. “She doesn’t need the machines anymore?”
“Not for breathing, no,” the doctor says kindly. “That’s a very big milestone for a thirty-four weeker. The next steps are feeding by mouth and maintaining her temperature outside the isolette. Once she can do both consistently, then we’ll start talking about discharge.”
Discharge. The word rattles inside me, so fragile and precious I almost don’t want to believe it, just in case it isn’t true.
Easton squeezes my hand tightly, his eyes shining. “Did you hear that? She’s coming home. Maybe sooner than we thought.”
I press my forehead to the glass, whispering her name. “Quinn, my sweet little angel.” My voice cracks. “Mommy’s here, baby girl.”
She stirs at the sound, one tiny hand curling in the blanket. And for the first time since she was born, the little voice that kept screaming I was a failure, disappears.
I’m still staring at the bare skin of her cheeks, marveling at how free she looks without the oxygen taped across her face, when her eyelids flutter.
At first, I think it’s just a reflex, some twitch she can’ control, but then they lift, slowly, stubbornly, and then two tiny blue eyes blink up at me.
My breath catches in my throat.
They weren’t dull or cloudy like I braced myself for. They were the exact same shade as Easton’s, like the ocean on a perfect day. Endless and clear. The kind of blue you can drown in without regret.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, pressing closer to the glass. “Easton, look. Look at her.”
But he’s already leaning in. His hand lands on my shoulder, his voice breaks with awe when he says, “Harley … she’s got my eyes.”
Quinn blinks again, unfocused, her tiny mouth twitching like she’s still deciding whether to cry or not. But I can’t stop staring at those eyes. They feel like proof that she’s fighting, that she’s been stitched together from the best parts of both of us.
Tears blur my vision, and I let them fall freely. “Hi, baby girl,” I whisper, my palm flat to the glass. “I see you. I see you .”
It’s been a week. Seven days since Quinn opened her eyes for the first time. Seven days of round-the-clock pumping, hospital visits, and trying to convince myself I was strong enough for this.
Quinn grows stronger each day. The nurses chart every ounce she gains, every feeding she manages without her oxygen dropping …
every milestone that pushes her closer to leaving the NICU.
While I hold my breath and keep praying for my baby girl to pull through like everyone keeps telling me she will.
And then, suddenly, the good news comes. The day I’ve been waiting for is here.
Discharge day.
I should be glowing, elated, bouncing with joy.
Instead, my chest is a battlefield. Excitement and fear war with guilt so heavy it pins me to the chair in the therapist’s office that morning.
Easton begged me to come here, to finally talk through everything that was weighing me down, and I didn’t know how to tell him the truth—that my mind isn’t quiet.
It’s a chorus of voices I can’t shut off.
One whispers every time I look in the mirror, tracing the new stretch marks across my skin. Don’t eat, you’re fat, you’re ugly, he’ll never want you like this.
Another hisses every time Easton walks into the room. He’s only here because he feels guilty. Eventually he’ll realize he doesn’t have to stay, and he’ll walk away.
But the cruelest voice was the one chanting over and over. You’re a failure, you’ll fail her too. Your daughter deserves better than you.
My chest tightens as I sit on that soft couch, the therapist’s pen moving quietly across her notepad. Easton’s hand is a steady weight on mine. For a moment, I think about keeping it all inside, the way I always do. I’ll swallow it down until it turns me hollow inside.
But instead, I finally let the words slip out. “There are so many voices in my head, and I don’t know which one to fight first.”
Easton’s grip tightens instantly, his thumb stroking circles into my palm like he can anchor me through the storm.
The therapist leans forward, her voice calm but firm. “Harley, those voices are not the truth. They’re the echoes of fear and pain. Naming them is the first step toward taking their power away. You’re here, and that means you’re stronger than they want you to believe.”
I want to believe her. But the voices don’t stop just because I say them out loud.
I glance at Easton. His jaw is tight, eyes burning with the kind of pain that comes from loving someone you can’t fix.
He lifts my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles, and whispers, “We’ll fight them together. Every damn one.”
The room is warm, with the faint scent of lavender flowing around us, but all I feel is restlessness. The tissue in my hands is shredded from where I’ve been twisting it between my fingers, and my knees bounce in a rhythm I can’t stop.
Across from me, the therapist smiles gently. “Harley, last week you were terrified you’d never get Quinn home. Now she’s ready to be discharged. I can see you’re struggling. Tell me what’s going through your head.”
I bite my lip, staring down at the mangled tissue in my lap. “What if I can’t do it? What if I bring her home and she cries, and I can’t figure out why? What if I’m too tired and I miss something important?”
Her pen taps softly against her notebook, but her voice stays calm. “Every new mother feels this way. You’re not failing motherhood by having fears. You’re human. What matters is you’re here, naming them, and asking for help.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t feel human. I feel … broken. Like my body has failed her. She wasn’t supposed to come this early. And now she’s tiny and fragile and everything depends on me. I can barely keep myself together. How am I supposed to keep her alive?”
The silence stretches, broken only by the soft sound of Easton’s thumb rubbing slow circles against my palm. He’s sat next to me every session, big and quiet, a steady wall when I felt like a crack in the floor. He speaks now, his voice rough but certain.
“You’re not broken,” he says, eyes fixed on me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world. “You’re healing. And Quinn doesn’t need perfect. She just needs you.”
The therapist smiles softly. “Sometimes, Harley, strength doesn’t look like having it all together.
Sometimes it’s showing up, even when you’re afraid.
That’s exactly what you’ve been doing. And you’re not alone.
You have Easton. You have your family. You have me.
We’ll keep building tools to help you through this. ”
My vision blurs, tears sliding hot down my cheeks. I want to believe her. I want to believe Easton. But all I can manage is a whispered, “Okay.”
Easton squeezes my hand tighter, and I know he hears what I can’t say. All of it.
By the afternoon, we’re back at the hospital, sitting through discharge instructions. The nurse hands me a folder thick with papers, each one a reminder of how fragile Quinn still is.
“You’ll need to track every feeding and diaper change,” she says, her tone brisk but kind. “Keep an eye on her temperature. If it drops, call us immediately. She needs to sleep on her back. No blankets, and no pillows in the crib.”
My head spins. I can barely remember to eat breakfast most days. How was I supposed to remember all of this?
Easton sits upright beside me, pen in hand, jotting notes like his life depends on it. He nods at every word, asking questions I hadn’t thought of.
“What about tummy time? How do we handle reflux? How often do we wake her if she sleeps too long?”
The nurse smiles, answering each one, and I want to sink into the floor with relief. At least one of us has it together.
Then she wheels in a tiny car seat. Quinn is already buckled inside, her body dwarfed by the straps and padding. She looks impossibly small, but so … real. No tubes, no wires. Just a pink hat snug on her head as her chest rises and falls on its own.
I reach out, fingers trembling and brush the back of her hand. Her skin is soft, warm, and she stirs slightly at my touch.
“She’s really coming home,” I whisper, almost afraid to say it out loud.
“She is,” Easton says, his voice low and reverent. He bends down, kisses her tiny forehead, and then turns to me. “We’ve got this, Little Bird. You and me against the world, remember?”
I nod, though my heart still thunders with fear.
Walking out of the hospital feels different this time. Back then, my arms were empty, my body hollowed out. Now, Easton carries the car seat in one hand with the diaper bag slung over his shoulder like it’s nothing. We’re a walking TikTok trend that I’m sure Kennedy would have loved to capture.
I walk beside him, slower than I want, but steadier than before. My hand brushes the side of the seat every few steps, just to reassure myself she is still there. People glance at us as we pass, some smiling at the sight of the tiny bundle, others too wrapped up in their own worlds to notice.
It doesn’t bother me like it would have before.
In the car, Easton buckles the seat with a precision that makes me laugh through my tears. He tugs each strap and double-checks every angle.
“Safe?” I ask, trying to sound lighter than I feel.
He smirks, though his eyes shine. “She’s not going anywhere.”
When I slide into the back seat, I tug my belt on and turn to watch Quinn’s chest rise and fall. She looks peaceful, unaware of the storm she’s already lived through.
Easton starts the car, watching us through the rearview mirror, his blue eyes tired … yet the biggest grin tugs at his lips.
And with Quinn breathing steady in the back seat, we drive home as a family.