Chapter 28
Grant
The hospital room is quiet except for the soft beeping of monitors and Emma's steady breathing.
I can't stop staring at them.
Two bassinets, side by side. Two impossibly tiny humans wrapped in identical white blankets with pink and blue stripes. Their faces are peaceful, eyes closed, miniature fists curled near their chins.
My children.
The thought still doesn't feel real, even though I watched them enter the world six hours ago. Even though I held Emma's hand through every contraction, every push, every moment of her extraordinary strength and courage.
My son's bassinet is on the left. He's slightly bigger—six pounds, three ounces to his sister's five pounds, nine—and he has a dusting of dark hair that's almost black. When the nurse first placed him in my arms, he opened his eyes just long enough for me to see they're slate gray. Like mine.
My daughter is on the right, and she's... God, she's perfect. Smaller, with strawberry blonde wisps of hair that catch the light.
James and Clara.
Emma was half-delirious with exhaustion when she whispered the names, but she seemed certain about it.
"James, like your grandfather," she'd said, her voice hoarse from hours of labor. "And Clara, because I've always loved it. We’ve cycled through so many names, but I think James and Clara suit them perfectly. Is that—are those okay?"
I'd kissed her forehead, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. “They’re perfect for them.”
I ease myself out of the chair beside Emma's bed and move to the bassinets. My back aches from hours of standing, my shirt is a wrinkled mess, and I'm pretty sure I haven't eaten in twelve hours. None of it matters, though.
James shifts in his sleep, his tiny mouth working like he's dreaming of nursing. The movement is so adorable and I can’t take my eyes off him.
With Samantha, I missed this. I was there for the birth, held her when she was minutes old, but then I went back to work within days. I missed the quiet moments, the middle-of-the-night feedings, her first smile. I was too focused on building my business, on proving myself, on being the provider.
I thought that's what fathers did.
I'm not going to miss it this time.
Clara makes a soft sound—not quite a cry, but a little mewl of displeasure. I reach into her bassinet, my hand spanning her entire back as I lift her.
She's so light. So fragile. Her head rests against my chest, and I support it carefully.
"Hi, sweetheart," I whisper against the top of her head. She has that brand new baby smell and I breathe it in. "I'm your dad. And I promise you, I'm going to do better this time. I'm going to be here. For everything."
She doesn't respond, of course, just burrows closer to my warmth. Her little hand finds my shirt, fingers curling in the fabric with surprising strength.
The moment pierces through me. Some last piece of armor I didn't know I was still wearing.
I'm a father again. Oh my god.
Behind me, Emma shifts in the bed. I turn, worried I've woken her, but her eyes are still closed. She's lying on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow, her face peaceful despite the exhaustion that must be bone-deep.
She was magnificent.
The labor was long—fourteen hours from the first real contraction to Clara's final push into the world. Emma spent most of it so focused and determined, breathing through the pain with a strength that was awe-inspiring.
She refused the epidural until hour ten, insisting she wanted to experience the birth naturally.
"Women have been doing this since the beginning of time," she'd said through gritted teeth. "I can handle it."
And she did. Until the pain became too much, until even her iron will couldn't push through it, and she finally agreed to the medication with tears streaming down her face.
"I'm not weak," she'd said, like she needed to convince me.
"You're the strongest person I know," I'd told her, and meant it with every fiber of my being.
When it was finally time to push, Emma gripped my hand so hard I felt bones shift. But she didn't scream. Just bore down with everything she had, her face red with exertion, her body doing what it was made to do.
And then James was there. Screaming his little head off and absolutely perfect.
They placed him on Emma's chest, and she looked down at him with such wonder, such immediate, fierce love, that it brought tears to my eyes.
Clara came five minutes later. Smaller, quieter, but just as perfect. The doctor placed her beside her brother, and Emma wrapped her arms around both of them, sobbing with relief and joy.
"We did it," she'd whispered. "Grant, we did it."
“You were amazing, baby,” I’d said and leaned down to kiss the top of her head.
Clara squirms in my arms now, starting to cry again. I rock her gently, swaying the way the nurse showed me, and she settles again.
"Your mom's sleeping, sweet pea," I tell her quietly. "She worked really hard to get you and your brother here. So we're going to let her rest, okay?"
James chooses that moment to wake up with a sharp cry that shatters the quiet.
I freeze.
Two babies. Two arms.
The panic is immediate.
How do people do this? How do you hold two infants at once? What if I drop one? What if—
"Grant?" Emma's voice is sleep-rough and amused. "You okay?"
I turn to find her watching me, her eyes half-open but bright with laughter.
"James is crying, and I'm holding Clara, and I don't—how do I—"
She shifts in the bed, wincing slightly as she sits up more. "I don’t know but I’m sure between the two of us we can figure it out."
The confidence in her voice steadies me. I carefully shift Clara to my left arm, cradling her head, then reach down to scoop up James with my right.
It's awkward. They're both so small, and my arms feel too big and clumsy. But I manage it—one baby in each arm, both of them settling against my chest.
James stops crying almost immediately, his little face relaxing as he feels the warmth of my body.
"See?" Emma's smile is soft. "You’re a natural."
"I don't feel like a natural right now. I’m afraid I’m going to drop them."
"You won't." She pats the edge of the bed. "Come sit. Let me see them."
I cross the room carefully, hyper-aware of my movements. When I reach the bed, I ease myself down on the edge, and Emma leans against my shoulder.
"Hi, babies," she whispers. Her hand comes up to stroke James's cheek, then Clara's. "I can’t believe you’re finally here."
We sit like that for a long moment, the four of us together in the quiet room. The city sprawls outside the window—Manhattan at dusk, lights beginning to twinkle as the sun sets.
"I was so scared. During the labor, when it hurt so much I thought I'd die from it, I kept thinking—what if something goes wrong? What if they're not okay?"
"But they are." I press a kiss to her temple. "They're perfect. And you were incredible."
She makes a dismissive sound. "I cried. I begged for the epidural. I'm pretty sure I threatened to murder you at least twice."
"Three times," I correct. "But who's counting?"
Her laugh is quiet but genuine. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."
"I know." I shift slightly, adjusting my hold on the twins. "Emma, you brought two human beings into the world. You're allowed to cry and beg and threaten murder."
"Still. I wanted to be—I don't know. Stronger."
"You couldn't possibly be stronger." I turn my head to look at her, needing her to see the truth in my eyes. "Emma, you spent fourteen hours in labor. You pushed two babies out of your body. You're a warrior."
Tears well in her eyes. "Don't make me cry."
"Then I'll stop." But I don't look away. "I love you. So much. And I'm so proud of you."
A tear spills down her cheek despite her trying to hold them back. "I love you too. And I couldn't have done it without you."
"Yes, you could have."
"But I didn't have to. That's the point." She wipes at her eyes, then gestures to the twins. "Can I—will you hand them to me? I want to hold them."
Emma settles back against the pillows and We manage the transfer carefully, both of us focused on supporting their heads. The sight of her with a baby in each arm—exhausted and radiant—makes my throat tight.
"I'm going to take a picture," I say.
"Grant! I look terrible."
"You look beautiful." I pull out my phone and snap several photos before she can protest. Her hair is a mess, there are dark circles under her eyes, and her hospital gown is well… a hospital gown, totally unflattering.
A soft knock on the door interrupts the moment. We both look up as it opens, and Emma's mother slips inside.
Helen Sullivan looks like an older version of her daughter—the same warm brown eyes, the same delicate features. But where Emma radiates determination and fire, Helen's energy is gentler. More subdued.
The result of so many years with David Sullivan.
"Emma, sweetheart." Helen crosses to the bed, her eyes already wet with tears. "Oh my goodness. They're here. They're really here."
"Hi, Mom." Emma's voice is soft and cautious.
Helen bends down to kiss Emma's forehead, then looks at the twins with wonder. "Can I—may I hold one?"
She gives a small nod and carefully transfers Clara into her grandmother's arms.
Helen cradles her like she's made of glass, her tears falling freely now. "She's so precious. Emma, she looks just like you did."
"You think so?"
"I know so." Helen strokes Clara's cheek with one finger, her smile tremulous. "What's her name?"
"Clara. And he's James, named after Grant’s grandfather."
"Clara and James." Helen tests the names, then looks at me.
I stand, suddenly restless. "Thank you for coming. I know it's—complicated."
The word hangs in the air. Complicated doesn't begin to cover it.
Helen shifts Clara to one arm and reaches into her bag with the other. She pulls out a package, wrapped in blue paper with gold ribbon. The wrapping is clumsy, the edges uneven.
David's handiwork, not hers.