No hesitation this time.
No balancing act.
Claire looked toward the window where weak sunlight had fully replaced the darkness outside.
“She’s going to hate me now,” she whispered.
I shook my head slowly.
“No,” I said. “She’s going to hate losing control.”
That distinction mattered.
Because love without boundaries eventually stops protecting people and starts consuming them.
Later that afternoon, an older nurse paused near the doorway while Claire slept.
“First baby?” she asked softly.
I nodded.
She smiled gently.
“Men usually look terrified the first time.”
“I almost lost them tonight.”
The nurse glanced toward Claire.
“You showed up,” she said simply.
I almost corrected her.
Almost explained how emotionally absent I had been even after arriving physically.
But then I looked at Claire sleeping with one hand protectively covering her stomach.
Maybe showing up late was still better than never showing up honestly at all.
By evening, the doctor finally cleared Claire to go home under strict conditions.
Bed rest.
Minimal stress.
Follow-up monitoring within forty-eight hours.
As I helped her into the wheelchair near the hospital exit, she looked smaller somehow.
Fragile in ways no pregnancy book could ever prepare someone to witness.
Outside, Chicago glowed gold beneath the setting sun while cold wind swept through the streets.
Before helping her into the car, I stopped.
“Claire.”
She looked up at me carefully.
“I know saying sorry isn’t enough.”
“No,” she said quietly. “It isn’t.”
I nodded slowly.
