Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Nick
I’m not exactly sure how we’ve ended up here.
One minute, we’re in Sara’s old apartment, I’m on one knee, my heart racing with the words I never thought I could say aloud, and the next, we’re in a hospital room, and everything I thought I could control is slipping through my fingers.
I don’t handle this well.
It’s the smallest things that throw me off. The way the nurses move around the room with a calmness I can’t quite match.
The beeping monitors that seem to amplify the intensity in the air. The scent of antiseptic that’s supposed to reassure but only makes everything feel colder.
And then there’s Sara, who seems unnervingly composed.
Every contraction, every moment of discomfort, she handles with the kind of calm strength that I should probably be emulating. But instead, I’m a mess.
The kind of mess who’s asking for organic ice chips, as if that’s going to fix things. Or yelling at the nurses about blanket softness, as though her level of comfort is what’s going to get us through the next several hours.
My heart’s hammering in my chest, and I don’t know how to stop it.
Sara, though, she’s not flustered. She’s sitting there, steady, as the hours slip away.
Twelve of them.
And I can’t stop thinking about how good she is at this. Not just the pregnancy, not just being calm for me. But how she’s good at showing up when I’m fumbling. How she’s already holding it together for us, for all three of them.
I try to take a deep breath. I try to focus on her, to ground myself in what’s happening. But I can’t. I feel the panic building again.
The nurses come and go, Sara’s labor progressing, and I keep looking for the next step, the next thing I’m supposed to do.
“Nick,” she says, her voice calm despite the strain, “I’m fine. You’re fine.”
But I’m not. Not really. And it’s getting harder to hide it.
The tension in my chest won’t ease. Every minute is a battle, and every time I try to be a calm presence, to offer something that resembles control, it falls apart.
I keep thinking, what if something goes wrong? What if I don’t know what to do when it’s time? What if I don’t know how to be the father these kids need?
And then, an emotional sucker-punch, it happens: her contractions overwhelm her.
She gasps, doubling over, clutching her belly, and for a moment, the world goes still.
Sara’s always been strong. I can see the effort on her face, the determination in her eyes. But this moment? It knocks the wind out of me.
I lean forward, ready to support her in whatever way I can, but my brain isn’t catching up fast enough. I’m caught between my love for her and the terror of what’s coming next.
I feel her hand grip mine, her fingers tightening around me so she’s holding on to something solid.
“Nick, I’m scared,” she whispers, her breath shaky.
I don’t even hesitate.
“I’m here. I’m right here,” I assure her, my voice thick with everything I’m trying to hold back. I press my forehead to hers, trying to let her know I’m present, that I’m ready to do whatever it takes.
And that’s when I realize it. It’s not about me fixing this. It’s not about me staying in control. It’s about being there.
That’s all. Just showing up, in the mess, in the chaos, in the waiting room of fear, and never once stepping away from her side.
I stay with her.
I’m there when the nurses rush in, when the medical team begins to prep her. I’m there as the minutes tick by, dragging on, stretching into hours.
And then, finally, we reach it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The moment we both have been waiting for.
I feel a sharp intake of breath from Sara, and suddenly, the room is alive with action.
The first cry echoes in the room… loud, strong, perfect.
I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until it’s released in a rush. And then the second cry follows, and the third, and the room is filled with the sounds of our children making their entrance into the world.
Sara looks at me, and for the first time in hours, I see her smile. There’s a quiet joy there, despite the exhaustion on her face.
She’s done this. We’ve done this. And everything that was out of my control has finally fallen into place.
I lean down, kissing her forehead, feeling the warmth of her skin, the weight of everything we’ve just experienced.
Finally, I feel my entire body loosen. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together until it all released in one long exhale.
It’s a strange kind of relief, sweat-slicked, emotionally raw, and yet, somehow, the most overwhelming sense of peace I’ve ever felt.
We did it.
The room is filled with chaos, not just from the babies but from the nurses and doctors. I’m rooted to the spot, watching them move in tandem, their professional calm contrasting with the storm of emotions raging inside me.
I take Sara’s hand, squeezing it gently.
“They’re here,” I say, my voice rough, because suddenly I can’t find the right words for any of this. “And they are amazing.”
She’s exhausted, her eyes still wide with the wonder of it all, but there’s a smile on her lips, a smile that is mine to keep. For a moment, the world outside this sterile room, outside of our little universe of tiny, perfect beings, doesn’t matter.
I glance over at the nurses, trying to decipher what’s going on, who’s doing what. There are two little boys, both healthy, screaming their lungs out, and a tiny girl.
“Look at them,” Sara whispers, tears welling up in her eyes. “They’re perfect.”
I nod, my throat thick. “They’re everything.”
The first nurse comes over to me with one of the boys, passing him to me as she smiles warmly. I freeze for a second, completely unsure of how to hold him. He’s so small.
I glance at Sara, who’s watching me with a proud smile.
“We need names,” she says, her voice suddenly light, as if the enormity of what just happened has lifted into something soft and almost whimsical.
I think about it for a moment, staring down at our son. Our first-born. A name, I think. A legacy.
I want it to be perfect, something that carries weight, like he does.
“Ethan,” I say, meeting Sara’s gaze. “Ethan James. What do you think?”
Sara nods, her smile growing even wider. “I love it. Ethan James Ashford.”
The nurse smiles at us before turning to take Ethan back, and I’m left holding our second son, a feeling of warmth spreading through me.
I’ve always been good at names. At numbers, deals, power moves. But this? This is something else.
“Samuel,” I say, the name feeling right on my tongue. “Samuel Cole Ashford.”
Sara nods again, her tears now falling freely. “They’re perfect,” she whispers, as if she’s still coming to terms with the fact that they’re real. Our sons.
But then my gaze shifts to our daughter, and everything seems to stop. She’s the last to be cleaned up and wrapped in a blanket, her tiny hand reaching out as though she’s ready to be held.
This one… this little girl, who will always have me wrapped around her finger.
“Lily,” I say softly, the name coming easily. “Lily Grace Ashford.”
Sara’s breath catches. “Lily,” she repeats, almost as if she’s savoring the sound of it. “Lily Grace.”
The nurse gives us a moment with our new daughter, and I sit down on the edge of the bed, holding her against me just like I had the others.
I’m finally starting to feel the enormity of this moment, of how my life has already changed in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.
I hear the door crack open, but I barely register the movement.
My focus is still entirely on Sara, the babies, the overwhelming wave of everything I can’t control. The sound of soft footsteps at the threshold doesn’t even compute.
But then I hear it… her voice. Low, hesitant.
“I thought you might… need someone.”
I freeze.
It’s as though the entire room just… disappears. The world outside this sterile hospital bubble fades. My pulse quickens. My heart stutters.
It’s her.
Evelyn.
She’s standing there in the doorway, just… looking at us. As if she never left.
My mind races, but it can’t catch up to the sight in front of me.
My sister.
It’s been years. Years since I’ve seen her face, heard her voice, felt the weight of her presence.
I don’t know how to process this, how to react to the fact that after everything, she’s standing there, looking at me with those familiar eyes that still hold all the sharpness, the coldness, and somehow, a softness I haven’t seen in a lifetime.
She’s wearing an oversized sweater and jeans, her hair a mess of curls held loosely in a bun, like she just threw it up in a rush. Her face is a little tired, maybe from a long shift, maybe from something else entirely.
But she’s here.
I blink, trying to shake the fog that’s clouding my head, but it doesn’t help. I look at Sara, and I see the same disbelief mirrored in her expression. We both stare at Evelyn in shock.
How is she even here right now?
How does she know?
She steps inside the room, her gaze flickering briefly to the babies, Ethan, Samuel, and Lily, before landing back on us.
“I saw the hospital dash online. Sorry, I know that sucks…”
I roll my eyes. “I am getting thoroughly sick of journalists.”
Sara, still holding Lily, looks at Evelyn with a calm I can’t quite match. “I don’t care how you found out about this, I’m just so glad you’re here.”
I try to steady my breath, but it’s getting harder. Sara doesn’t seem as thrown as I am. She just looks at Evelyn with those steady eyes of hers, the same eyes she gave me when she first saw me, and the same eyes she’s giving our children now.
Her calmness is almost a balm, even if I’m too tense to appreciate it.
Finally, Evelyn steps forward, her gaze still on the babies, her expression softening in a way I haven’t seen in years.
“They need an aunt,” she says, the words quiet, as though testing them out. “Like you said, they need family.”
The words hit me hard.
Family.
I had no idea how badly I needed that word to be spoken, or how long it’s been since I’ve heard it from someone who isn’t Sara. But hearing it from Evelyn, especially after everything… it cuts deep.
The silence in the room stretches, and I’m acutely aware of the distance between us, between me and Evelyn, between me and the person who I wish had been there all along. The guilt, the regret, the weight of everything unresolved, it hangs over me in a storm cloud.
Sara, though, she just nods, soft but strong.
“You’re right,” she says, her eyes flicking to me. “They need family. Even if it’s messy.”
I glance at Sara, then back at Evelyn. I don’t know how we got here, or why this is happening now, but… I realize something.
Despite everything that’s happened, despite all the damage, there’s room for this. There has to be. There has to be room for us to heal. For Evelyn, for Sara, for me.
Maybe even for the broken parts of our past that never quite made it whole.
Before I can say anything, Evelyn’s voice cuts through the tension.
“You’ve got a good life here, Nick. She’s… Sara seems great with you.”
I blink, caught off guard by her words. I don’t know whether to feel defensive or grateful. “What do you mean?”
Evelyn’s eyes flick to me for a beat before she speaks again, softer this time. “You’ve always been the one trying to fix things, even when everything felt broken. But… you’re different now. I can see it. She’s good for you.”
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat thickening. Her words carry more weight than I want to admit. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “I’ve been watching from the sidelines for a while, you know? I wasn’t sure if you were ever going to let someone in again after…” She stops herself, like she’s afraid to say too much. “But Sara… she’s the real deal, Nick.”
I let out a breath. It’s as though a part of me, something I’ve been holding onto for years, finally exhales.
“I’m so glad you’re back. Ev. And I will do what I can to keep you out the public eye, I swear it…”
Evelyn doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at me. There’s a flicker of pain in her eyes, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it appears.
She steps closer, her hand moving to rest gently on the back of Sara’s chair, a gesture that feels so natural it catches me off guard.
“You didn’t need to protect me anymore, Nick,” she says, her voice softer now, more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard it. “I needed to fix myself. You… you tried, though. I know that.”
I feel a strange mixture of guilt and relief wash over me. “I should’ve tried harder. I should’ve been there. You needed me, and I—”
“No,” she interrupts, shaking her head. “You were trying to fix things that couldn’t be fixed. You were trying to be everything for everyone. You were lost, too.” She pauses, her gaze lingering on me. “But I think you found your way back. I think you’re okay now.”
For the first time, I can feel the possibility of something, of a new beginning. A new chapter.
It’s not perfect. It never will be. But as Evelyn takes a step closer to Sara and looks down at the babies, something shifts.
There’s a tenderness there, something raw but genuine.
I didn’t know how badly I needed this. But I’m beginning to realize… we all do.
And maybe this could be the start of something I didn’t think was possible anymore.
A family.