Chapter 35

When they returned that evening, the house was still. The decorations were still fluttering gently in the breeze outside, but inside, everything was hushed—softly lit and calm. The warmth from the afternoon's laughter and hugs lingered like the smell of vanilla and lavender.

Max helped Mia hang her cardigan on the back of a chair before silently heading toward the bedroom, the silver "R" charm still glinting at her collarbone.

She sat on the bed, not undressing, not speaking. Just… sitting. Holding the quiet between her fingers like it might fall apart if she moved too suddenly.

Max joined her after a few minutes, easing onto the edge of the mattress. He didn't try to talk. Instead, he just took her hand.

Her fingers curled around his almost immediately.

"I didn't think I'd make it through that," she whispered.

"I know," he said softly. "But you did."

She exhaled slowly. "I was so afraid… that all that love would feel like pressure. Or pity. But it didn't. It felt… safe."

Max turned to face her, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. "You are so loved, Mia. And not just because you're Rowan's mom. Not just because of today. Because you're you."

Her eyes shimmered again, but this time she didn't look away.

"I yelled at you yesterday," she said, shame creeping into her voice. "I told you I didn't want you around. And you still stayed."

Max gave a small, tired smile. "I'll always stay."

She leaned into him then, head resting against his shoulder. "I'm scared, Max."

"I know."

"What if I can't protect her?"

He turned and kissed her forehead. "You already are."

Silence settled over them again, this time softer. Max wrapped an arm around her and leaned back against the headboard. Mia followed, tucking into his side like they'd done so many nights before—but tonight, it meant something more. She wasn't shutting him out anymore.

She was letting him in.

They returned to the NICU the next morning just after sunrise, the hospital halls still hushed with the weight of early morning shifts and sleepy nurses.

Max carried a small bag—inside was a soft blanket from the shower, a board book Heather had labeled "Rowan's First Library," and a laminated photo of the family from the day before.

Mia strolled beside him, her hand in his, calmer than she had been all week. She looked tired, but steadier. Less like she was crumbling.

The nurse on duty greeted them warmly and gave a thumbs-up.

"Your girl had a strong night," she said. "We even lowered her oxygen a little. She's fighting like a champ."

Mia's face lit up—not a full smile, but the closest to one Max had seen in days.

They approached Rowan's incubator. She was asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling, her little face scrunched slightly as if she were dreaming.

Mia reached into the port gently, her fingers brushing Rowan's foot. "Hi, baby girl. Mommy and Daddy are here."

Max pulled out the book and sat beside Mia, handing it to her. "Do you want to read it today?"

She nodded, voice quiet. "Yeah. I do."

She began reading softly, her voice still a bit unsteady but full of warmth.

Max didn't interrupt. He just sat there, watching the two people he loved most in the world, the ache in his chest finally giving way to something lighter.

Not everything was okay.

But today, they were together. And that was enough.

It was Monday afternoon when everything changed.

The NICU had become strangely familiar by now—the rhythm of the monitors, the hum of machines, the soft rustle of nurses moving like ghosts between incubators. Mia and Max moved through the doors as they had every day since Rowan was born, their hands freshly sanitized, hearts braced for the same cautious routine.

But this time, something was different.

The nurse at the desk—Linda, one of their favorites—stood as they approached, her smile wider than usual.

"You two are just in time," she said, a twinkle in her voice. "The neonatologist will be by in a minute to talk to you."

Mia froze. Her fingers instinctively found Max's. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no," Linda reassured them quickly. "It's good news. Promise."

They shared a nervous glance, but neither spoke. They moved to Rowan's station, and there she was—tiny and perfect, wearing a new lavender onesie with white stars that April had picked out from the shower. No oxygen tube. No feeding line. Just a heart monitor and a diaper.

"She looks different," Mia whispered.

"She looks free," Max murmured, eyes glassy.

A moment later, Dr. Patel arrived. As always, she was calm and confident, her clipboard in one hand and a smile playing at the corners of her mouth."Rowan's done everything we needed her to do," she said, eyes kind. "She's breathing well on her own, her feedings are consistent, and she's maintaining her temperature. Unless something unexpected happens tonight, I'd say you can take her home by Tuesday."

For a moment, there was no air.

Mia blinked. "Home? Like—our home?"

Dr. Patel nodded. "Your home. Your bed. Your arms."

Mia's knees gave just slightly, and Max was there instantly, wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her.

"We thought it would be weeks," he said, voice thick.

"I know," Dr. Patel replied gently. "She's small, but she's mighty. And she's ready."

The doctor left them with a few folders—discharge instructions, feeding schedules, warning signs to watch for—but none registered immediately. They stood there, staring down at their daughter like she was made of light.

"She's coming home," Mia whispered, almost in disbelief.

Max nodded, brushing a tear off his cheek. "She's coming home."

Mia reached into the incubator and picked Rowan up slowly, gently, for skin-to-skin. The baby settled into her chest with a sigh, like she'd also been waiting for this moment. Max stood behind her, wrapping his arms around them, resting his chin on Mia's shoulder.

There was no fear in the room for the first time since Rowan was born.

Just wonder.

Just peace.

Just a family—whole, fragile, and full of love.

Monday night was a whirlwind.

The moment Max and Mia left the hospital, they called Jessie's house, and in seconds, the entire family was buzzing with joy. April cried on the phone. Heather immediately started deep-cleaning every surface in the guesthouse. Ashley and Charolette went into planning overdrive and were determined to stock the nursery with everything from preemie diapers to a fully sterilized bottle station.

By the time Max and Mia returned to the house, the front porch lights were on and the windows glowed with a warm, steady light, as if the home was already waiting for Rowan.

"She's going to sleep right here," Mia said softly, standing in the nursery doorway, staring at the bassinet.

Max walked in behind her, arms filled with newly unpacked onesies and muslin blankets from the baby shower. "It doesn't feel real yet," he said, setting the stack on the changing table. "That tomorrow we'll be parents… at home."

"We already are," Mia said. "But yeah. It'll feel different."

She walked to the window and peeked out toward Jessie's house, where she could see silhouettes moving behind the curtains. She knew her brothers and sisters-in-law were waiting for news. They'd spent every day loving Rowan from a distance. No one had been allowed to hold her—too small, too fragile. But tomorrow, the distance would finally close.

For Charlotte and Frank, MMax's parents, it would be their first grandchild. Mia could still hear the tremble in Charlotte's voice when she said, "We can't wait to meet—for real this time."

Leaving the hospital wasn't how Mia imagined it would be—but in many ways, it was better.

There were no balloons or camera flashes. Just a nurse gently swaddled Rowan and placed her into Mia's arms while Max waited nearby. The infant carrier was tucked against his chest like sacred cargo.

"She's ours now," Mia whispered.

"You mean she's home now," Max corrected with a smile.

They strapped her in carefully, every motion deliberate, reverent. The drive home was silent except for the occasional sound of Rowan's tiny breaths from the back seat. Mia turned around every two minutes to check on her. Max kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other gripping Mia's.

When they pulled into the driveway, there was no grand welcome party—just their family standing on the porch, misty-eyed and quiet, giving them space but radiating love.

Max unbuckled Rowan while Mia got out slowly, heart hammering. This was it.

Charlotte was the first to cry openly as they stepped onto the porch. She covered her mouth, tears sliding down her cheeks as Max gently handed her Rowan.

"She's perfect," she whispered, voice shaking. "Perfect."

Frank stood just behind her, his normally stoic face crumpling with emotion as he looked down at his granddaughter for the first time. "Hi there, little one," he said, his voice hoarse. "You've got your dad's stubborn look already."

The others followed in turn—Ashley, Heather, April—all taking slow, careful turns holding Rowan, who blinked at each new face, her tiny hands curling against soft blankets.

Jessie and Mark stood back, letting the women take their time. Jessie nudged Max with a grin. "She's gonna be spoiled as hell, you know that?"

Max chuckled. "She already is."

Later, after everyone had gone home with promises to stop by tomorrow, Max and Mia finally found themselves alone again—just the three of them.

The nursery glowed softly with a warm nightlight, casting gentle shadows on the walls where a mobile of clouds and stars danced above the bassinet.

Rowan was asleep in Mia's arms, her tiny chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that felt like a prayer answered.

Mia sat in the rocker, eyes glassy with exhaustion, wonder, and something deeper like peace.

"I didn't think we'd get here," she whispered.

Max knelt beside her, one hand resting on her knee, the other gently brushing Rowan's cheek. "You got her here."

"We both did."

Max looked up at her. "I've never loved anyone the way I love you."

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she leaned down and pressed her forehead to his.

"I know," she whispered. "And I love you too."

The moment stretched, quiet and full. Outside, the world spun on. But inside this room, everything was still.

Their daughter was home.

Their family had begun.

And love—fragile, fierce, and healing—was everywhere.

Morning crept in quietly, though no one in the house had truly slept.

Rowan stirred every hour—tiny cries that never reached full volume, but each one pierced through Mia's light doze and had Max jolting upright in bed. Between feedings, swaddling, and obsessively checking her breathing, the night had passed in a slow-motion blur.

Still, there was no complaint—just awe.

"She smells like milk and magic," Max whispered, holding her close at 4:00 a.m. as she finally drifted back to sleep on his chest.

Mia smiled from across the room, curled up on the glider with a pillow tucked under her arm. "And she makes these little squeaks like a baby squirrel. How is that even real?"

"I don't think we're ever sleeping again," he said, grinning.

"Wouldn't trade it," she murmured, eyes heavy but heart full.

By mid-morning, sunlight streamed through the kitchen window as Max's parents and Jeremy quietly packed their bags in Jessie's guest rooms. It was a bittersweet rhythm—folding clothes, checking flight details, sneaking one last peek at their new granddaughter.

Charlotte was the first to walk over. She paused in the nursery doorway, her eyes filling with tears as she watched Mia gently cradle Rowan near the window.

"I wanted more time," Charlotte whispered, her voice catching.

Mia stood slowly, walking over to her. She said nothing, gently placing Rowan into her grandmother's arms. Charlotte held her like something sacred.

"You made it real," she said, looking at Mia. "You gave us her. And I am so proud of the mother you already are."

Frank hugged Max just outside the nursery, clapping him hard on the back. "She's everything, son. Everything. You're doing well."

Max nodded, his throat tight. "Thanks, Dad."

Ashley joined them a moment later, gently adjusting the blanket around Rowan's legs before kissing her forehead. "This baby… she's going to be so loved, no matter how far we are."

Jeremy, tall and quiet as ever, was the last to say goodbye. He crouched down near Mia, now seated again, gently rocking.

"She's tiny," he said, with a small smile. "Like you were."

Mia laughed softly. "She's stronger than she looks."

Jeremy met her eyes. "So are you."

He looked over at Max next. "I'll see you back in L.A. You good?"

Max nodded. "Tired. But yeah."

"You've got this," Jeremy said, pulling him into a one-armed hug. "Text me every picture. Every. Single. One."

After the airport drop-off, the house felt quieter. It was not empty—Rowan's presence filled every room—but the absence of Max's family left a bittersweet ache in the air.

Mia curled up on the couch, and Rowan fell asleep against her chest. Max reheated the tea and then again when he forgot to drink it.

"I think this is the best day of my life," Mia said, blinking slowly.

Max sat beside her and smiled. "Even with no sleep, spit-up on your hoodie, and cold coffee?" especially because of all that.

They sat like that for hours, trading shifts between holding Rowan, napping in turns, and marveling at every coo, every blink, every impossibly tiny yawn.

There was no schedule, no control, just love, patience, and a kind of exhaustion that still felt sacred.

Their daughter was home.

Their family was smaller now without Max's parents and brother nearby, but it was stronger.

And it was just beginning.

The first week at home was nothing like what Mia had imagined.

There was no manual for how to parent a preemie, no formula for balancing the fear of needing to protect her with the overwhelming love that came with her every breath. But something else had started to emerge—a gentle rhythm that spoke more in quiet moments than in grand gestures.

Mornings began before sunrise. Max's phone alarm would buzz for another feeding, and Rowan, wrapped in a soft blanket, would squirm gently in her bassinet beside their bed. It was a calm, instinctual movement between them—Max would quietly slip out of bed, grab Rowan, and hand her to Mia, who would sit in the glider to nurse.

Rowan would drink her fill, little hands fumbling her mother's fingers. And while the world outside was still dark, Mia would rest her forehead against Rowan's, whispering promises and songs as Max sat nearby, watching them both with an ache.

The days blurred between feedings, diapers, and swaddling. Between catching moments of quiet between them, when the house felt impossibly small but full of warmth. The conversations that used to stretch into the night now shortened into smiles, shared looks, and the occasional soft laughter in the nursery when Rowan finally dozed off.

But there were other moments too.

It was late Thursday night when the day's weight finally settled into their bones.

Mia sat at the edge of the bed with Rowan in her arms, rocking her gently to sleep. The soft hum of the baby monitor crackled from the other room, where Max had begun cleaning up the kitchen after another rushed dinner, the kind where they barely had time to sit down, much less eat a hot meal.

Max walked into the bedroom quietly, leaning against the doorframe as he watched Mia rock slowly back and forth. His gaze softened, his hand running through his hair as he entered the scene.

"Mia?" he asked softly, unsure if she was awake.

She glanced up at him, her expression tired but peaceful. "Hmm?"

"I'm not sure I can keep up with this pace," he admitted quietly. "Every time I turn around, I'm either messing something up or too late to help. I just don't know how to do it all."

Mia's eyes softened. She had felt the same weight of the days, the exhaustion creeping into every bone. But hearing it from Max made her feel less alone.

"I feel the same," she whispered. "But we're doing it. We're here. She's here."

"I never realized how hard it would be," Max confessed, stepping closer and sitting on the bed beside her. "But I also never realized how much I'd love it. Love her."

"I think we're learning as we go," Mia said, her hand reaching out for his. "And it's okay that we don't know everything right now."

Max leaned in, kissing her head gently before resting his cheek against hers. They sat silently for a moment, letting the quiet fill the spaces between them.

"It's just me and you now," Mia said softly, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. "We'll keep learning together."

Max smiled, his eyes heavy with unshed tears. "I don't ever want to do this without you."

"You won't have to," she promised, the rawness in her voice echoing the unspoken promise in the room. "We've got this."