Bringing Hope home was terrifying.
They'd spent three days in the hospital, learning from nurses, feeling like they sort of knew what they were doing. Then they walked through their front door with a real baby and realized they knew nothing.
"What if she stops breathing?" Lina asked, staring at Hope in her bassinet.
"She's breathing. Look—her chest is moving."
"What if she gets hungry in the night and we don't hear her?"
"She'll cry. Babies cry when they're hungry."
"What if—"
"Lina." Kai took her hands. "We've got this. We're going to make mistakes. Every parent does. But we'll figure it out together."
She took a deep breath. "Together."
"Together."
The first weeks were exhausting.
Hope woke every two hours to eat. Lina breastfed, which was harder than expected—painful at first, then better, then just part of the routine. Kai handled diapers and burping and soothing, learning his daughter's cries, her preferences, her personality.
"She likes music," he discovered. "When I play piano, she stops crying."
"Of course she does. She's your daughter."
He composed a lullaby for her—simple, beautiful, full of love. He played it every night before bed, and Hope would drift off, peaceful and content.
They didn't sleep.
Not really. Not more than two or three hours at a time. They moved through days in a fog, surviving on coffee and adrenaline and love.
"Is this what parenthood is?" Lina asked one night, feeding Hope at 3 AM.
Kai sat beside her, equally exhausted. "Apparently."
"How do people do this?"
"They figure it out. Like we're figuring it out."
She leaned against him. "I love her so much. Even when I'm tired. Even when I'm frustrated. I love her more than I thought possible."
"That's parenthood too. The love. It's overwhelming."
They sat together in the dark, their daughter in Lina's arms, their hearts so full they might burst.