7. Tyler
TYLER
Maya corners me at breakfast on Friday morning with that look that means I'm not going to like what comes next.
"We're going to the clinic today for a paternity test."
I stop mid-bite of toast. "What? Why? She's mine. The birth certificate—"
"Covers your ass legally," Maya interrupts, crossing her arms. "Jessica abandoned Harper on your doorstep.
What happens if she comes back? What happens if her family decides they want custody?
You need legal documentation that she's yours, Tyler.
Not just a birth certificate, but actual DNA proof that will hold up in court. "
Nora's at the table with Harper, and I catch her nodding slightly. "She's right. It's protection for you and for Harper."
"Fine." I don't like it, but I'm not stupid enough to argue with both of them. "When?"
"Appointment's at nine." Maya's already got her phone out. "I called yesterday and got you in. We'll be back by eleven, then I'm spending the rest of the day making sure you know what you're doing before we leave."
"You're leaving today?" My stomach drops.
"We all are." Emma appears from upstairs with luggage. "Mom, Maya, and I. We've got to get back to Hartford. But you'll be fine. You've got Nora, and you're doing way better than you were on Tuesday."
That's a low bar, considering Tuesday, I was having a breakdown.
The drive over is quiet. Maya's in the passenger seat texting someone about a shift swap, and I'm trying to figure out why my chest feels tight when, by every rational measure, this test is a formality.
I remember Jessica. I remember the night—well, what I can remember of it.
The math lines up. The birth certificate is in my kitchen drawer with my name on it.
It's not that I doubt she's mine. It's that I haven't actually let myself sit with what happens if she's not. Some part of me has decided I want her either way, which is probably not the response a sane person would have. I’ve known her for four days.
And I'm already in the position where I need her to be mine, regardless of what the lab says.
I don't know what to do with that.
The clinic is efficient and sterile, and it makes me nervous anyway.
A nurse takes us back to a small room and explains the process.
She’ll take simple cheek swabs from both Harper and me, provide official documentation to prove chain of custody, and we’ll get results in three to five business days.
"Three business days minimum for lab processing," Maya clarifies, watching the nurse swab the inside of my cheek. "So you'll get the results Tuesday or Wednesday next week at the earliest."
Harper fusses when they swab her, and I have to hold her still while she squirms. It only takes seconds, but she's pissed about it, her little face scrunching up in outrage.
"I know, baby girl," I mutter, taking her from the nurse. "I know. It's over now."
She settles against my chest, still hiccuping, and I press my hand against her back the way Nora showed me, the warm, steady pressure that helps her regulate.
Four days ago, I didn't know that. Four days ago, I didn't know anything. I look down at her face, red and furious, but already calming, and feel the particular lurch of it again, the feeling that she’s really mine.
I don't know if I'm going to be any good at this yet, but I know I'm going to spend a long time figuring it out.
The nurse has me sign a bunch of forms confirming everything, then hands me a folder with information about how I'll receive the results via email and physical mail, apparently. Very official.
We're back at the house by 11 a.m., and Maya immediately goes into observation mode.
"Okay. I need to see you do the basics before I leave, because I'm not heading back to Hartford until I'm confident you won't kill this baby through incompetence."
"Jesus, Maya." But I'm already heading to the kitchen to make a bottle.
She follows, arms crossed, watching as I boil the kettle and set the timer for thirty minutes. While we wait, Harper starts fussing in Nora's arms.
"She's due for a diaper change," Nora says, checking her watch against the green column on the fridge chart.
"I've got it." I take Harper and head to the nursery, aware that Maya's right behind me.
I lay Harper on the changing table, support her legs, lift her bottom, and wipe front to back. A clean diaper underneath, fold the front up, and secure the tabs. Two-finger test on the waistband.
"Good," Maya says from the doorway. "You're not fumbling anymore."
I laugh. "I practiced about ten times yesterday. Maybe more."
She laughs too, just as the timer goes off downstairs. I carry Harper back to the kitchen, measure out two ounces of cooled water, add one level scoop of formula, shake until it dissolves, and test it on my wrist.
"Temp?"
"Warm, not hot."
I settle into the couch with Harper in the cradle hold, head supported in my elbow, the bottle angled so the nipple stays full. She latches on immediately.
Maya sits across from me, still watching. "How often are you burping her?"
"Halfway through the bottle and at the end. Sometimes more if she’s gassy." I adjust Harper slightly. "Nora showed me three different positions, but Harper likes over-the-shoulder best when she's fussy."
"Show me when you're halfway."
I pull the bottle away at the one-ounce mark, lift Harper to my shoulder, patting her back firmly but gently. She burps within thirty seconds.
"Nice." Maya's expression has shifted from skeptical to something approaching approval. "Nora's good."
"She's really good," I agree, offering Harper the bottle again.
The afternoon turns into a final exam. Maya quizzes me on the medical stuff, ticking through fevers and warning signs and what counts as urgent versus an ER run.
Fevers over 100.4 in a baby under three months—straight to the ER.
That's the line I'm not allowed to forget.
She makes me practice taking Harper's temperature with the rectal thermometer, which is still fucking weird, but I'm getting used to it.
We go through dehydration signs, what normal baby poop looks like versus concerning poop, and how to check for a fever without a thermometer if I need to.
"This is the stuff that scares new parents," Maya says. "The routine stuff, the feeding, diapers, and sleep, you've got that down because Nora's been teaching you. But the medical stuff is where people panic and either overreact or underreact. You need to know the difference."
By late afternoon, I've got pages of notes, emergency contacts saved in my phone, and Maya's personal cell number with instructions to text her photos if I'm worried about anything.
"You're doing better than I expected," Maya admits, watching me give Harper her evening bottle. "Nora's been putting in work with you."
"She has." I glance toward the stairs where Nora's been giving us space. "But I've been putting in the work too. She can teach me all she wants, but it doesn't do anything if I'm not actually trying."
Maya looks at me for a moment. Then she nods once, like she's filing something away. "Fair enough."
The evening routine is the final test. Maya watches while I give Harper a bath. Water tested by the elbow; gentle baby wash; head supported the whole time; towel-dried thoroughly, especially in the creases; into pajamas, final bottle, and then into the crib with the white noise machine on low.
Harper's out within minutes.
"Okay." Maya nods, definitive. "You're not going to kill her. You know what you're doing."
"Thanks to Nora and you guys."
"Mostly Nora at this point," Maya says. "We just got you started. She's the one teaching you the actual parenting part."
By 6 p.m., Emma, Diane, and Maya have loaded Emma's SUV.
Emma pulls me into a hug in the driveway.
Diane is right behind her, the two of them tag-teaming the same message in slightly different voices: you're a fast learner, you're not a disaster, you're a new parent who got zero warning, and that little girl is lucky to have you.
Call us if you need anything. I'm rougher than I want to be when I thank them. Emma squeezes hard.
Maya's hug is brief and firm. "Don't fuck it up. Call me if you have medical questions. I don't care what time it is."
"I will. Thank you. For all of it. For coming without asking questions."
She pulls back and gives me a look that's very Maya, dry and direct. "You needed help. That's how this works." She doesn't say anything else about it; she doesn't need to, and I think that's exactly the point.
I stand in the driveway watching until the taillights disappear around the corner.
Then it's quiet. Just the street and the house.
Most of my support system just drove away, and I should probably feel worse about that than I do.
But I don't, because when I turn around, the lights are on inside, Harper's in there, and so is Nora.
I head back inside. Nora's in the kitchen cleaning bottles; the color-coded charts on the fridge are already filled in for today. She glances up when I come in.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." I lean against the counter. "Just weird. They've been here since Wednesday morning, and now it's just us."
"Maya seemed impressed. Said you knew what you were doing."
"Because you taught me." I watch her organize the bottles in the drying rack, everything precise and methodical. "Maya handled the medical stuff, but the day-to-day? That's all you."
She doesn't look at me, just keeps working. "It's my job."
Right. Her job. Professional. That's what this is.
I check on Harper one more time before bed.
She's sleeping peacefully, her tiny chest rising and falling in the dark.
I stand there longer than I need to, one hand on the crib rail, throat tight in a way I didn't expect.
Four days ago, I didn't know she existed.
Now the idea of anything happening to her makes me want to put myself between her and the entire world.
My daughter. Mine. I pull the door mostly closed and stand in the hallway for a second, just breathing.
The paternity test will confirm it next week, but I already know. She's mine, and I'm not letting anyone take her away.
Not Jessica. Not anyone.
Because she's mine, and that's all that matters.