Chapter 38
thirty-eight
. . .
Natalie
Isla is asleep in Blair’s arms, completely unbothered by the chaos of eight adults and two other children crowded into Jake’s living room.
Our living room, I remind myself. I’m still getting used to that.
It’s been three days since Isla was born, small but healthy, her lungs strong despite arriving a month early.
We spent two nights in the hospital while the nurses monitored her temperature and feeding.
She struggled a bit with breastfeeding at first, needing help latching, and they wanted to make sure she was gaining weight before sending us home.
But yesterday afternoon, they cleared us both, and Jake drove us home to our house.
This is our first full day home with her.
Our first time having everyone we love in the same room to meet our daughter.
My mom is sitting next to Blair, her eyes never leaving Isla’s face.
She’s been here since the moment we texted that we were home.
My dad is standing near the windows with Rachel, both of them smiling at the baby with that grandparent glow.
Jake’s mom beaming from the screen of the laptop propped on the coffee table, her face bright even through the video call. “She’s absolutely precious,” Linda says for probably the tenth time. “I can’t wait to hold her in person.”
“We’ll fly you out soon,” Jake promises.
“No rush,” Linda says. “You two focus on adjusting. I’ll be there when you’re ready.”
“She’s so tiny,” Blair whispers. “I forget how small they are when they’re brand new.”
“Seven pounds eleven ounces is not that small,” I say from my spot on the couch. Everything still hurts—sitting, standing, existing—but I’m too happy to care. “The nurses said she was a great size for thirty-six weeks.”
“And twenty-one inches long,” Jake adds from beside me. His good hand is resting on my knee, his cast propped on a pillow. “She’s going to be tall.”
“Just like her dad,” Wyatt says, appearing from the kitchen with a beer. “Congrats again, man. She’s beautiful.”
“She really is,” Sophia agrees. She’s sitting on the floor next to Hazel, who’s been surprisingly gentle and curious about the baby. “That dark hair is gorgeous. And those eyes—do you think they’ll stay blue?”
“We’re hoping,” I say, though honestly I don’t care what color her eyes end up being. She’s perfect exactly as she is.
Stella emerges from Jake’s kitchen. It’s turning into what I’m learning is her favorite spot. She’s carrying a plate of cookies she’s just made for us. “Okay, I have a very important question. How did you decide on Isla?”
Jake and I exchange a glance.
“Jake suggested it, and I loved it immediately. It felt right.”
My mom smiles. “It’s a beautiful name. Strong and feminine at once.”
My dad nods. “Isla Elizabeth Reyes. It suits her.”
“It’s perfect,” Jess says. She and Lucas are wedged together in the armchair, his arm around her shoulders.
Brandon appears from the hallway where he’d been taking a phone call. “Sorry, work thing. Did I miss anything?”
“Just Natalie explaining the name,” Stella says, moving to make room for him on the couch.
“Isla’s a great name. Strong and delicate.” He grins at me. “Also, Stella and I left something in the nursery for you guys. Don’t freak out.”
“Why would I freak out?”
“Because it’s big.”
“How big?”
“You’ll see.”
Before I can ask more questions, Grant stands from where he’s been sitting with Sophia and Hazel. “We should probably head out. It’s getting close to Hazel’s bedtime, and I’m sure you guys want some quiet time with the baby.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Jake starts, but I can hear the exhaustion in his voice. We’ve been running on adrenaline and about three hours of sleep for the past two days.
“We do,” Blair says gently, standing and carefully transferring Isla back to me. The baby stirs but doesn’t wake, her tiny fist curling near her face. “You two need rest. And bonding time. And all the things new parents need without an audience.”
The exodus happens quickly after that. Hugs all around, promises to check in tomorrow, reminders that they’re just a phone call away if we need anything. Stella points dramatically toward the nursery when she leaves, mouthing “you’re welcome” at me.
And then it’s quiet.
Just me, Jake, and Isla.
I look down at the baby, still amazed that she’s real. That she’s ours. “Should we put her in the nursery? Let her sleep in her actual crib?”
“We can try.”
We make our way upstairs slowly—me still moving carefully after delivery, Jake still ginger with his injuries. The nursery door is closed, and when Jake pushes it open, I see what Stella and Brandon left.
A rocking chair. Not just any rocking chair—a beautiful, cushioned glider in soft gray fabric with an ottoman to match. There’s a card taped to the armrest.
“For the late-night feedings and the early morning cuddles. Love, Stella & Brandon”
“Oh,” I breathe. “That’s perfect.”
“It really is.”
Jake helps me settle into the chair while he gets the room ready. He adjusts the mobile, makes sure the sound machine is set up, checks that the monitor is on. Even with one arm in a cast, he’s completely in his element.
He comes back and carefully takes Isla from me, carrying her to the crib. He lays her down with such tenderness it makes my throat tight, adjusting her sleep sack, making sure she’s positioned safely on her back.
We both stand there for a moment, watching her sleep. Her chest rises and falls in that rapid newborn rhythm. Her tiny fingers twitch. She makes a small sound—not quite a cry, just a sleep noise—and settles again.
“I can’t believe she’s ours,” I whisper.
“I know.” Jake’s good arm comes around my waist, pulling me against his side. “We made her.”
“We made a whole person.”
“A perfect person.”
We stay like that, watching her breathe, until my legs start to protest from standing for too long. Jake guides me to the new rocking chair, and I sink into it gratefully.
He sits on the ottoman, facing me. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Sore. Exhausted. Deliriously happy.”
“That’s a good combination.”
“How’s your head? Your wrist?”
“Getting better. The headaches are less frequent. The wrist is just annoying.” He reaches over and takes my hand. “Nat, I need to tell you something.”
My heart skips. “Okay.”
“I’m going to marry you.”
I blink, confusion crossing my face. “I know. I already said I would marry you.”
“I want to make it official. As soon as you’re ready. As soon as we can get things together.”
The words settle over me, warm and certain and right.
My chest tightens, emotion swelling so fast it steals my breath. After everything we’ve been through, every wall I built, every time I pushed him away, we’re here. Together. With our daughter sleeping ten feet away.
My heart races, pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
“Let’s do it here. Just us, our friends and family, the people we love.” The words tumble out, my voice shaky with happiness.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I had the fanfare, this time I’ll just take the man.”
A laugh escapes me, watery and breathless, and I squeeze his hand maybe a little too hard. My whole body feels alive with this, with the certainty of us.
I think about how far we’ve come. From that one night in July to this moment right here.
From me running scared to me choosing him, choosing us, choosing this life we’re building together.
I’m finally letting myself believe in something I thought was impossible.
He leans forward, cupping my face with his good hand, and kisses me.
It’s soft and sweet and tastes like promise.
From the crib, Isla makes a small sound.
We both turn to look at her—our daughter, sleeping peacefully in the room her father built, surrounded by love.
And I realize I feel something I never thought I’d feel.
Hope. Not the false god I convinced myself it was, but something real and solid and worth believing in.
Hope for tomorrow. Hope for our future. Hope for all the messy, beautiful, imperfect moments ahead.