Epilogue
Liam - Eight Months Later
The contraction hits before she finishes sitting.
Avonna freezes halfway down, one hand gripping the back cushion, the other braced beneath her belly. I see the shift in her eyes before she makes a sound.
Focus pulls inward. Breath narrows.
“Oh,” she says softly.
Then again, louder, “Oh.”
I look up from the kitchen table where Sloane and I are coloring a thank-you card for the neighbor. Linus sits on the floor with Quinn, folding the last of the baby clothes into neat piles.
My chair scrapes back. “Another contraction?”
“Yeah.” Avonna nods, breathing through it. “Not practice.”
Linus rises immediately. “You sure?”
“I’ve been timing them since morning.” She manages a smile through the wave. “This one had teeth.”
Sloane and Quinn spring up together, identical reactions from shared instincts.
“Is he coming?” Sloane asks.
“Sure seems like it, my loves,” Avonna answers calmly. “Are you excited?”
Quinn spins once. “Yay! We’re having a brother.”
“Today.” Sloane claps before wrapping her arms around Avonna’s waist, reaching as far as she can. “Can I help pack?”
I gently guide her back. “Everything’s ready. Remember?”
“Oh right.” She bounces up and down. “I forgot for a second.”
Linus hands Avonna a bottle of water and steps in behind her, arms around her shoulders, palm settling over her belly. She leans into him without hesitation. I see her body register safety.
“We waited a long time for you, little man.” He pats her belly lightly. “Let’s get to the hospital.”
“I was starting to think I’d be pregnant forever.” Avonna laughs, breathless but smiling.
I wink, a subtle nod to Avonna’s extreme sexual appetite when she’s pregnant. “We’d keep you pregnant forever if you’d let us.”
Oblivious, Quinn raises her hand, solemn. “Can we be there when he’s born?”
“Not in the room.” Avonna smooths her hair. “You two get first turns when we’re home.”
Both girls nod, solemnly. Six years old and already fluent in love.
Linus’s phone buzzes. He glances at it. “Doula’s on her way. Hospital’s ready.”
Another contraction rolls through Avonna, stronger. Her fingers curl into my sleeve.
“I’m ready.” She winces.
Before we leave, Linus makes sure Sloane and Quinn are already curled under their blankets. The nanny sits on the couch with a mug of tea, promising updates and pictures and no midnight surprises unless we ask for them.
Avonna pauses in the foyer, one hand resting on the doorframe, about to say something else.
I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “They’re good.”
She nods, nuzzles her face briefly into my chest, then straightens.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Outside, the night is cool and clear. I guide her into the back seat, Linus gets in beside her. I take the wheel, heart pounding in a steady rhythm. Not panic.
Focus.
The city slides past in streaks of light. Red. Green. Gold. Every stoplight drags. Every turn feels sharper than necessary. I drive slower than instinct demands, faster than comfort allows.
“You okay?” I ask repeatedly.
Patiently she nods in reply each time.
Linus murmurs counts under his breath, grounding her through the waves. I keep my eyes on the road. Hands on the wheel. Knuckles white as snow.
Memory creeps in uninvited. Hospital corridors.
Doctors choosing words carefully. Silence after ultrasounds.
Avonna staring at walls instead of me. After the first loss, she cried for weeks.
The second, she went quiet. By the third, she wanted to stop.
Last time, she folded inward for a day and came back different.
More determined. We made this baby with more focus and purpose than anything else we’ve done with our lives.
At the hospital entrance, everything brightens. Clean. Efficient. Familiar in a way I never wanted to learn. Linus opens Avonna’s door. Another contraction hits as her feet touch the pavement. She grips my arm.
“We’ve got you.” I cover her hand with mine.
“I know.”
Inside, time fractures. Names checked. Bracelets snapped on. Shoes swapped. The doula arrives breathless and smiling, sliding into place without fuss. We move into the room as if rehearsed.
Contractions build. Rise. Break. Rise again.
Avonna grips my forearm during one wave, Linus’s hand locks with hers during the next. We rotate instinctively. No discussion. Instinct and presence.
Avonna rests her forehead against my shoulder. “I’m not scared,” she says quietly. “I want him healthy.”
I close my eyes. “He will be.”
On a deep level, I believe it. Not because certainty exists.
Because faith does.
Another wave crashes. She gasps. I count with her. Linus mirrors the rhythm. Sweat beads along her hairline. Determination intensifies her gaze.
“You’re incredible,” Linus encourages.
She laughs weakly. “I’m doing what millions of women have done for centuries.”
“Yes, but none of them had our son,” I remind her.
Time slows to a standstill. Contracts. Expands again. When the moment finally arrives, the room sharpens into focus. Sound drops away except for her breathing. Her hands clamp on to ours.
“Here we go” she whispers.
“Here we go,” Linus and I repeat.
With one final, brutal push, he arrives. Wet. Red. Loud. His cry splits the room open.
I laugh and sob at once. Linus buries his face into Avonna’s hair. She cries openly now, relief and disbelief all at once. They place him on her chest. Small. Perfect. Furious about being here.
I rest my hand on our son’s back. Warm. Solid. Undeniably real. The weight of him settles into me. Every fear drops away. Every waiting room fades.
Later, when the room settles and our son sleeps against Avonna’s chest, Linus lifts his phone and angles the screen toward us. Sloane’s face fills it first, hair sticking up, eyes bright despite the late hour. Quinn squeezes in beside her, blanket clutched under her chin.
“Is he here?” Sloane whispers.
“He’s here,” Avonna answers softly. “Sleeping. I love you, my darling girls.”
They grin so wide it hurts.
“Tomorrow,” Linus tells them. “You’ll meet him tomorrow.”
Quinn nods, solemn. “Okay. Night, baby brother.”
Linus steps back and watches me.
“Go.” He nods toward the bassinet. I hesitate, then lift my son carefully, feeling his small weight shift against my chest. He quiets almost immediately, breath evening out.
Linus watches, eyes shining. “You okay?”
“I am now.” I kiss his soft, dark peach fuzz.
Avonna catches my free hand. “Look at you, boy-daddy.”
“Look at us.” I smile through tears.
The nurse adjusts the lights. The world narrows to this room.
This moment. Not loud. Not frantic.
Held.
I kiss my son’s head again. “Welcome, Lennon McGloughlin.”
He squirms, fists punching at nothing.
My son through and through.
Everything else can wait.
Thank you for reading Hushed Harmony.