Eunice stared at the stuffed rabbit. It was cheap, plush, and offensively yellow. A generic, last-minute gift. An insult to the fifteen years of sterile, calculated, high-stakes warfare they had waged against their own biology.
"You've been lying," she said. Her voice was not a shout. It was a blade, cold and sharp. "For a year? You've been going through this... this... process... our 'failure'... and you've been 'fixing' it like one of your algorithms?"
"It is an algorithm, Eunice!" Karlman's voice was raw, pleading, all his 'A-type' smoothness gone. "It's a system. A broken one. Full of judgment and failure and a thousand points of entry where they can say 'no.' I just... I took the 'failure' part for us. I took the judgment."
That stopped her. The word "judgment."
"I sat in the classes," he whispered, his eyes burning. "I let them interview me. I let them ask the questions... about our families, about the curse, about why we were 'unsuitable.' I let them ask why your father disinherited you and why my church cast me out. I sat there, and I answered them. I answered them all."
Eunice's breath caught. He had done that. Alone. He had willingly walked back into the fire that had almost destroyed them. He had shielded her from the shame, the questions, the pitying looks. He had absorbed all the poison of their past, just to get to this moment.
His betrayal was, in its own twisted, 'A-type' way, the most profound act of love he could have possibly committed.
"You went behind my back," she said, but the steel was gone. It was just a statement. A fact, hanging in the sterile air of their kitchen.
"I did," he said, not backing down. "Because I knew you wouldn't. You'd already surrendered, E. You'd already decided the 'curse' was real. And I... I just... I couldn't live in that tomb with you anymore. I had to find a door."
He took a step toward her. "She's a door, Eunice. She's... she's at St. Jude's. In the NICU. She's... she's three days old. Her mother was a student. She's healthy. She's... just... waiting."
He looked at the stupid, plush rabbit in his hand, and his composure, the one he'd held for 15 years, finally shattered. "I couldn't... I can't... us. I miss us, E. The fight. The 'us-against-the-world.' Please. Just... come with me. Just see her. If you see her, and you still want to... to live in this perfect, empty house... we will. I'll... I'll tell them no. But just... see her."
Eunice looked at her husband. The 38-year-old man who still had the same desperate fire as the 23-year-old boy who'd promised her a dynasty. The boy who had slid a keyring onto her finger in a beige, bureaucratic room.
She picked up her car keys from the marble island.
"You're not driving," she said, her voice rough. "You're a mess."
The drive to the hospital was a 15-year silence, filled with every unspoken word, every failed IVF cycle, every "negative" pregnancy test, every hollow, empty Tuesday anniversary. They were two strategists, two analysts, walking into a variable they could not control.
The NICU was another world. It was dark, save for the blue-white glow of monitors. It was the opposite of their house—it was filled with the sound of quiet, rhythmic beeping. The sound, not of failure, but of trying.
A nurse with kind, exhausted eyes met them. "Mr. and Mrs. Dowman? We've been expecting you. She's right over here. She's... she's a good one. Sleeps right through."
She led them to a clear, rolling bassinet at the end of the row.
"She's a preemie, but just by a few weeks. She's strong. Lungs are great. Just needs to... you know... get her start."
Eunice gripped the plastic rail. She was braced for... she didn't know what. A thunderclap. A sign. A rejection.
Inside, a tiny, impossibly small creature was curled on her side. She had a wisp of dark hair, a blotchy, red face, and her hands were curled into fists the size of walnuts. She was, Eunice's 'A-type' brain noted with detached clarity, a baby. A real, living, breathing, 6-pound result.
"Can... can I?" Karlman's voice was a whisper.
"Go ahead. Scrub in first," the nurse said.
Karlman, the man who commanded boardrooms, fumbled for a full minute with the automatic soap dispenser before managing to scrub his hands. He reached into the bassinet and put one, hesitant finger on the baby's back.
The baby, in her sleep, uncurled her tiny hand and, by sheer, random, biological reflex, grabbed his finger.
Karlman made a sound. A small, broken, strangled sound. The sound of 15 years of failure, grief, and shame exiting his body in a single, ragged breath. He looked at Eunice, his eyes streaming.
"E," he whispered. "Eunice. Look."
Eunice had been standing back, her arms crossed, a fortress. She had refused to be broken by hope again. But seeing Karlman's hand, a hand she knew so well, being held by this... stranger...
She scrubbed in. Her movements were precise. Surgical. She reached in, her hand shaking. She didn't touch the baby's back. She put her hand on the baby's chest. She felt it. A tiny, thrumming, hummingbird heartbeat.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
The sound of life. A life that wasn't "unlikely." A life that wasn't "cursed." A life that was just... here.
"Oh," Eunice whispered. It was the only word she had. "Oh."
The baby, feeling the warmth, turned her head toward Eunice's hand and made a small, rooting, snuffling noise.
The fortress, built of 15 years of ice, didn't just crack. It vaporized.
"What's her name?" Eunice asked the nurse, her voice, a voice that had closed multi-million dollar deals, trembling.
"She doesn't have one yet," the nurse said gently. "She's just 'Baby Girl.'"
Eunice looked at Karlman. She looked at the tiny, perfect, fighting creature in the box.
"Lia," Eunice said, the name appearing in her mind, fully formed. "Her name is Lia. Lia Dowman."
Hope wasn't rekindled. It was born.