26. Erik
“That one too.”
The delivery man pauses, the sleek glass coffee table balanced between him and his colleague. “You’re sure? This is a really nice piece.”
“I’m sure. It has corners.”
He exchanges a look with his partner. It’s the kind of look that says rich people are insane but they carry it out without further comment. I watch them go, mentally checking another item off my list.
The penthouse is in chaos. There are people everywhere: the delivery team removing furniture, a carpenter assembling a crib in what used to be my home office, a contractor installing safety latches on every cabinet in the kitchen. It’s controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless.
Nolan is napping in the bedroom. He’s been exhausted lately, the final weeks of pregnancy taking their toll. The doctor says everything is progressing normally, but I still worry. I can’t seem to stop worrying.
“You know the baby won’t be crawling for at least six months, right?”
I turn to find Ellie watching me from my desk—her desk now, really, given how much time she spends there. She’s surrounded by college brochures and her laptop is open to what looks like an application portal.
“I’m aware.”
“And yet you’ve removed every piece of furniture with a sharp edge, installed outlet covers in rooms the baby will never enter, and I’m pretty sure I saw someone testing the window locks earlier.”
“The window locks needed updating anyway.”
She grins, not buying it for a second. “You’re nesting. It’s adorable. You know that’s supposed to be an omega thing, right?”
“I am not nesting. I’m being practical.” I step aside as another delivery man passes with a box marked BABY MONITOR - PREMIUM. “There’s a lot to do before the baby arrives, and I’d rather be overprepared than under.”
The nursery team emerges from the back room, their leader consulting a tablet. “Mr. Nilsson? The crib is assembled and we’ve installed the changing station. Did you want the rocking chair by the window or in the corner?”
“By the window. The light is better there.”
The team disappears back into the nursery.
“How’s the application going?” I ask Ellie, partly to distract myself.
“Almost done. Just need to finish my personal statement.” She makes a face. “Turns out ‘I spent the last year almost dying and watching my brother’s dramatic love life unfold’ doesn’t fit neatly into five hundred words.”
“You could focus on the academic aspects.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” She types something, frowns, deletes it. “Actually, I’m writing about resilience.” She glances up at me. “Nolan helped me with it. He’s annoyingly good at this stuff.”
“He’s annoyingly good at most things.”
“Gross. No heart eyes at my brother when I’m in the room.”
“I wasn’t—” I stop, because I absolutely was.
I’m a heart eyes meme every day these days.
I still can’t quite believe my luck. Nolan moved back to the city one week after that first scan together and moved in here three days after that.
We renewed our vows last month, properly this time, with flowers and cake and Ellie as the officiant because she got ordained online specifically for the occasion.
It’s not the life I imagined for myself. It’s better.
“He’s due any day now,” Ellie says, reading my mind. “You must be going crazy.”
“The due date isn’t for another week.”
“First babies come early all the time. My money’s on tomorrow.”
“That’s not—” My phone buzzes. I grab it so fast I nearly drop it. “It’s Nolan.”
Ellie still there?
I frown. Yes. Why?
A pause. Then: Don’t freak out.
My heart stops. “Something’s wrong.”
“What?” Ellie’s on her feet instantly. “What did he say?”
I don’t answer her because I’m already racing to the bedroom.
Nolan is sitting up, sweat beading on the side of his beautiful face.
“Didn’t want to worry you until I was—” He breaks off, face contorting as another contraction hits. I hold him through it, feeling his whole body tense against mine, and the reality of what’s happening crashes over me.
He’s having our baby. Right now. Our son.
“Breathe,” I murmur against his hair. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
The contraction passes. Nolan sags against me, exhaling shakily. “Okay. That one was stronger.”
“Hospital. Now.”
The drive to St. Mary’s is a blur of traffic lights and Nolan’s controlled breathing and my own heart pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
He holds my hand across the console, squeezing tight every time a contraction hits, and I squeeze back.
I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to do this together.
We’ve got our overnight bag packed, filled with everything we need, including drinks, snacks, books and the crossword puzzles that Nolan loves because I know that babies can take hours to come.
In the end, we don’t have time to wait. They wheel Nolan into a private room and we only have to wait a few minutes for a midwife to arrive and check how far he is dilated.
She looks up, pulling a face. “Eight centimeters dilated. You’re moving fast. Let’s get you into a room.”
Eight. Eight. That’s insanely fast. It was supposed to take hours to get us to eight.
No, don’t panic. I need to be there for Nolan.
The next hour is a blur of activity and waiting, pain and progress. I stay by Nolan’s side through all of it, holding his hand, wiping his forehead, murmuring encouragement when the contractions get bad and silence when he needs to focus.
He’s incredible. I’ve always known he was strong but watching him now, fighting through each wave of pain with gritted teeth and sheer determination, I’m in awe of him.
“You’re doing amazing,” I tell him during a brief lull. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Easy for you to say.” But there’s a weak smile under the exhaustion. “You’re not the one trying to push a watermelon out of your body.”
“I would if I could.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, maybe not. But I’d do anything else. Anything you need.”
“I know,” he says. “I know you would.”
The doctor is at the end of the bed, paying close attention and murmuring encouraging words. We’re almost there.
The contractions are coming faster now, harder, and Nolan’s grip on my hand is bruising. I don’t care. I’d let him break every bone in my body if it helped.
“I can’t—” He gasps, arching against the bed. “Erik, I can’t—”
“You can. You’re almost there. Just a little longer.”
“It hurts—”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
Ellie appears in the doorway, her face pale but determined. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s incredible,” I say without taking my eyes off Nolan. “He’s doing incredible.”
“The waiting room is driving me crazy. Can I—”
“Stay.” Nolan’s voice is strained but certain. “Please. I want you here.”
She moves to his other side, taking his free hand. The three of us form a unit: Nolan in the center, Ellie and me flanking him.
“Ten centimeters,” the doctor announces. “Nolan, it’s time to push.”
What follows is the most intense experience of my life.
Nolan pushes with everything he has, his face contorted with effort, his body working to bring our son into the world.
I hold his hand and count and breathe with him and tell him over and over that he’s amazing, that he’s almost there, that I love him.
I love him. I’ve known it for months, said it dozens of times, but I’ve never felt it as acutely as I do right now.
“One more push,” the doctor says. “Give me one more big push, Nolan, and you’ll get to meet your son.”
Nolan bears down, a raw scream tearing from his throat, and then—
A different cry. High and thin and absolutely perfect.
“He’s here.” The doctor lifts a squirming, red-faced bundle into the air. “Congratulations. You have a beautiful, healthy baby boy.”
The sound that comes out of me isn’t quite a sob, but it’s close. The baby is placed on Nolan’s chest, and I watch as my husband, my beautiful, exhausted, miraculous husband, looks at our son for the first time.
“Oh,” Nolan breathes. “Oh, he’s—Erik, look at him.”
I’m looking. I can’t stop looking.
He’s tiny and wrinkled and still covered in the mess of birth, and he’s absolutely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. His eyes are squeezed shut, his fists waving in the air, his cry already softening as he feels Nolan’s warmth against him.
Our son. Our family.
“He’s perfect,” I manage to say. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “Nolan, he’s perfect.”
“He has your nose.” Nolan laughs, watery and overwhelmed. “Poor kid.”
“And your stubbornness, probably.”
“Definitely.” He looks up at me and the expression on his face is pure radiant, exhausted joy. “We made a person, Erik.”
“We did.” I lean down and kiss his forehead, tasting salt.
Ellie is crying openly now, not even trying to hide it. “He’s so small. I can’t believe how small he is.”
“You were smaller,” Nolan tells her. “When you were born. Mom said you fit in the palm of her hand.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe a little.”
The doctor clears her throat gently. “We need to clean him up, do some tests. You’ll have him back in just a few minutes.”
It feels wrong to let him go, even for a few minutes. But the nurses are efficient and kind, and soon they’re placing him back in Nolan’s arms, now cleaned and swaddled in a soft blue blanket.
“Have you decided on a name?” one of the nurses asks.
Nolan looks at me. We’ve discussed this—debated, really, going back and forth for months—but we never quite settled on anything. It felt like bad luck, somehow, to decide before he was here.
But now, looking at our son’s face, the answer seems obvious.
“Christian,” I say. “After Nolan’s middle name.”
“Christian David,” Nolan adds, his voice soft. “After your father.”
I stare at him. “You never said—”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.” He smiles, tired but sure.
“I know things weren’t perfect between you and your dad.
But he was still your family. And this little guy—” He adjusts the blanket, revealing a tiny fist. “He’s the start of a new family.
Our family. It feels right to honor where we came from. ”
I can’t speak. I lean down and kiss him instead, trying to pour everything I’m feeling into the press of my lips against his.
When I pull back, Nolan is looking at me with those green eyes I fell in love with despite every reason not to.
Christian makes a small sound—not quite a cry, more of a sigh—and nestles deeper into Nolan’s arms. The monitor beeps softly.
Six months ago, I was alone in my penthouse, convinced I’d lost everything that mattered. Convinced I’d destroyed any chance of happiness with my own arrogance and blindness.
Now I’m standing in a hospital room, looking down at my husband and our newborn son, with Ellie crying happy tears in the corner, and I understand something I never did before.
This is what it means to have everything.