The soft light of late afternoon filtered through the half-closed curtains, casting long golden beams across the bedroom. Max stood in the doorway, his heart aching as he looked at Mia curled up on the bed. She hadn't moved in hours.
It was nearly four in the afternoon, and she hadn't eaten anything since early morning. The untouched plate of toast and fruit he had left on the dresser now looked sad and stale. He stepped in quietly, the floor creaking under his weight.
"Mia," he said gently, his voice barely more than a whisper. He moved closer, crouching beside the bed. Her face was turned away, but he could see the faint shimmer of dried tears on her cheeks.
She didn't respond.
"Hey, sweetheart," he tried again, brushing her hair from her face. "You need to eat something. It's been almost a whole day."
Her eyes fluttered open slowly, red-rimmed and heavy. When she met his gaze, the rawness in them knocked the breath from his lungs.
"I'm not hungry," she murmured. Her voice was hoarse, and Max could tell she'd cried herself into exhaustion.
He took her hand gently, lifting it to his lips.
"I know. But you need to, love. You have to take care of yourself. Rowan needs you strong, and I need you strong too."
Mia blinked quickly, a tear slipping free.
"I shouldn't have gone into labor so early," she said, the guilt cracking her voice. "She's so tiny, Max. She looks so... fragile."
Max felt his chest tighten. He embraced her softly, wrapping his arms around her trembling form.
"Hey, no. None of this is your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. Rowan's just in a hurry to be part of the world."
He felt her bury her face against his chest, shoulders shaking. He kissed the top of her head, letting her cry, holding her like she was something sacred. And to him, she was.
After a long moment, he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.
"Do you want to return to the hospital for a little while?" he asked softly. "We could take a book—maybe read to her. I bet she'd love that."
Mia hesitated. Then she gave the faintest nod.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Yeah, I think I'd like that."
Max smiled and pressed his forehead to hers.
"Okay. But first, let's get you something to eat. Just a little. Then we'll go see our girl."
He stood, offering her his hand. She took it, slowly sitting up, and for the first time all day, her face carried something other than sorrow—something softer, a flicker of hope.
They would get through this.
Together.
The car ride to the hospital was quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the engine and Mia's occasional sniffle. She sat bundled in Max's hoodie, staring out the window at the blur of the city passing by, her hands resting protectively over the small space where Rowan had once grown inside her.
Max drove one-handed, his other hand resting gently over hers, grounding her.
As they pulled into the parking structure and found a spot on the third level, Max pulled out his phone before leaving. He hesitated momentarily, thumb hovering over the screen, then tapped open the family group chat—"Team Rowan 💜", as Mia's sister-in-law Heather had named it after the birth.
Max:
Mia and I are heading to the hospital to spend time with Rowan. Just us for now. She's not doing great emotionally, so we're keeping it quiet tonight.
A few seconds passed, and the replies started to come in:
Heather:
Understand. Tell her we love her.
April:
Sending all the love and hugs. Take the time you need.
Jessie:
Got it. Suppose you guys need anything, just text.
Mark:
Love you both. Kiss that sweet baby for us.
Ashley:
Give Mia a hug from me. We're all here when you need us.
Jeremy:
Hang in there, man.
Charlotte:
I'll keep dinner warm if you want to stop by later. Take care of each other.
Frank:
We're proud of you both.
Max smiled faintly and put the phone away.
"Everyone's giving us space," he said gently, glancing at Mia.
She nodded, lips pressed together in a silent thanks, and exited the car.
The soft lights in the NICU cast a warm, artificial glow over the rows of bassinets and machines, their blinking lights and beeping tones the new soundtrack to Max and Mia's evenings. Everything here was small: the quiet voices, the delicate gowns, the tiny fingers curled around nothing.
And Rowan—she was the smallest of them all.
Wrapped in her incubator like a fragile treasure, she slept beneath wires and tubes that seemed too big for her. But her chest rose and fell. She was here. That was all that mattered.
Max sat close beside Mia, their knees nearly touching, the Goodnight Moon book resting gently in her lap. Her fingers stroked the corner of the page repeatedly, but she hadn't turned it in for several minutes.
He had done most of the reading this time.
Mia's voice had faltered too often and had fallen silent altogether. Now she just stared at their daughter through the plastic, her expression unreadable, still and faraway, like she was trying to reach Rowan with sheer will alone.
Max studied her quietly, his heart clenching.
She looked… hollow.
Not in the sense of being empty, but more like something vital inside her had cracked open and spilled out. Her usually bright eyes were dulled, her posture drawn in, and her shoulders curled like she was trying to shrink. Grief clung to her like fog, invisible to anyone who didn't know her—but Max knew her. He knew every laugh line, every fierce spark of passion, every soft glance she'd ever given him. And he knew—without a doubt—that she blamed herself.
Mia sat there, watching their daughter, and Max saw guilt in her eyes. A quiet, cruel voice convinced her she'd failed somehow, that she had broken something before it could begin.
She hadn't said those words aloud yet, but he knew.
"Mia," he said softly, reaching over and covering her hand with his. She didn't flinch, but she didn't look at him either.
"You're not alone in this," he said. "You hear me?"
She nodded faintly. But it felt automatic.
Max leaned in, his voice lower now, just for her.
"You didn't do anything wrong. She's early, yeah—but she's strong, Mia. Just like you. You made her strong."
Her eyes finally met his then. Wet, red, exhausted.
"She shouldn't have to fight like this," she whispered. "She should still be inside me. Safe."
Max swallowed the lump in his throat.
"I know. I wish that too." He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. "But she's here now. And we're here with her. That's what matters."
They turned back to Rowan. Mia reached through the little porthole in the incubator, gently placing two fingers on Rowan's tiny leg, the only part of her not taped down or monitored. Her touch was trembling, reverent.
"Hi, baby girl," she whispered. "Mommy's here."
Max felt his chest tighten again—not with pain this time, but something else, something like awe. Even broken, Mia gave everything she had to their daughter—every ounce of her sorrow, her fear, her love.
And as he watched her, Max realized something else: he didn't just love Mia. He needed her not just in the way that made your heart skip a beat, but in the quiet, anchoring way that made life make sense.
He rouched Rowan's other leg, mirroring Mia's gesture.
"We're both here," he added softly. "And we're not going anywhere."
For now, that was all they could do.
Stay, read, hold her through the plastic, and let their voices wrap around Rowan like lullabies, like prayers.
They were a family—fractured, scared, unsure—but a family still.
And that had to be enough for tonight.
The drive home from the hospital was filled with silence again, but this time it wasn't the soft, comfortable kind. It was brittle, sharp around the edges. Max kept glancing over at Mia, hoping for a flicker of change in her expression—a word, a sigh, anything—but she stared blankly out the passenger window, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
When they pulled into the driveway, he parked the car and turned toward her.
"Heather made dinner," he said gently. "We could swing by their place for a bit. Or we could go out, just you and me—something small."
Mia didn't look at him.
"I don't want to go anywhere," she said flatly. "I just want to go home."
He nodded, trying not to let the weight of her detachment pull him under. "Okay. That's fine. We'll go home."
They walked into the house side by side, but Max felt a hundred feet away from her. He helped her out of her coat, hung it up, then followed her into the dim, quiet kitchen.
She opened the fridge, stared inside, then closed it again without touching a thing.
"You should eat," Max said carefully. "Even just a little. Your body's been through so much, Mia. You just gave birth—you need fuel. You need rest."
"I said I'm not hungry," she snapped, her voice rising sharply. "God, Max. Can you not do this right now?"
Max stepped back, stunned. He hadn't expected that edge in her voice. "I'm not trying to push you, I just—"
"I don't need you to take care of me," she cut in, her voice breaking. "I don't need anyone to tell me what I should or shouldn't do. My daughter is in a plastic box, Max. I failed. She's there because of me. And I just—" Her breath hitched, and she turned away from him. "I just want to be alone."
Max stood frozen in the middle of the room. "Mia..."
But she was already walking down the hall.
He followed her to the bedroom, stood awkwardly in the doorway as she climbed into bed fully dressed. She pulled the blanket over her and faced the wall without sparing him a glance.
The last thing she did was reach up and flick the light switch, bathing the room in darkness.
Max stood there for a long minute, then quietly backed out, shutting the door behind him.
It took him ten minutes to walk the short path to Jessie and Heather's house, but every step felt heavier than the last. The porch light was on, and he could hear the faint murmur of voices inside. Laughter. Warmth. The illusion of normalcy.
When he stepped through the front door, everyone looked up.
Heather stood by the island, pouring tea. Mark and Jessie were in the living room, and April curled beside them with a blanket. Charlotte and Frank were at the table with Jeremy and Ashley in mid-conversation. The whole family—Mia's family—gathered close in the house that had always been full of love.
Max didn't even try to hide it.
When the door shut behind him, everything hit him like a punch to the chest.
"I don't know what to do anymore," he choked out, the words tumbling as the dam finally burst. "She won't eat, she won't talk, she won't let me in. She blames herself for everything, and —I don't know how to help her."
His voice cracked, and before anyone could speak, his legs gave out beneath him. He sank to his knees right there in the entryway, head in his hands, sobs breaking free.
In seconds, they were all around him.
Heather knelt beside him, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Jessie and Mark helped him back to his feet. Charlotte reached for his hand, tears in her eyes, too. No one told him to stop. No one told him to be strong.
They let him break.
Because love didn't just mean showing up for Mia.
It meant showing up for him, too.
The morning sun rose slowly and golden on Saturday, casting a soft glow over the quiet neighborhood. Despite the heaviness of the previous day, there was movement—life—in the house next door. Doors opened and closed, voices murmured with purpose, and the scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls drifted into the crisp spring air.
Inside Jessie and Heather's house, the women were already at work. The baby shower had been planned for weeks, long before Mia had gone into labor early. They had considered canceling it after Rowan's premature birth, but Ashley had been the first to speak up the night before.
"She still needs this," she'd said gently, wiping tears from Max's face. "Not for the gifts. For the love."
And now they were determined to make it perfect.
Heather and April hung pastel decorations in soft sage, cream, and blush tones, turning the living room into a cozy celebration space. Ashley arranged tiny cupcakes on a tiered stand beside a table full of delicate finger foods and sparkling apple cider. Charlotte carefully laid out the memory book and a stack of Polaroids to capture every smile, hug, and reminder that Rowan was already so deeply loved.
Jessie and Mark handled the heavier lifting—literally—moving extra chairs and setting up a small framed sign that read:
"Celebrating Rowan Elise — already perfect, already loved."
Back at the house, Max was quietly making coffee when there was a soft knock at the door. He opened it to find Heather and Ashley holding a small gift box and matching expressions of kindness.
"We're not here to push," Heather said gently. "But we thought... maybe we could help get Mia ready. Just be with her for a bit. She doesn't have to do anything. Just come next door if she's up to it."
Ashley handed Max the box. "It's from all of us. Just something soft and pretty to wear, in case she feels like changing."
Max nodded, his throat tight. "Thanks. I'll try."
When he entered the bedroom, Mia was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the oversized hoodie she'd worn the day before. Her eyes were puffy, her hair pulled into a loose, neglected bun. But she looked up when he came in.
"They're having the shower anyway," she said quietly, reading it in his expression.
"Yeah," Max replied. "They didn't want to cancel. They thought maybe… it could be something good. For both of us."
He held out the box. Mia took it in silence and opened it slowly. Inside was a soft, flowing dress in muted blush, a matching cardigan, and a delicate, simple necklace with a tiny silver "R" charm.
Her lips parted. "It's beautiful."
Max knelt in front of her. "So are you. Even when you're hurting."
She closed her eyes, and he could see the tears building again. But she didn't pull this time when he reached for her hand.
"I don't know if I can smile today," she whispered.
"You don't have to," he said. "Just come, be surrounded. Let them love you a little. Let them love Rowan."
Mia hesitated, then slowly nodded." Okay. But only for a little while."
Back at the house, Max was quietly making coffee when there was a soft knock at the door. He opened it to find Heather and Ashley holding a small gift box and matching expressions of kindness.
"We're not here to push," Heather said gently. "But we thought... maybe we could help get Mia ready. Just be with her for a bit. She doesn't have to do anything. Just come next door if she's up to it."
Ashley handed Max the box. "It's from all of us. Just something soft and pretty to wear, in case she feels like changing."
Max nodded, his throat tight. "Thanks. I'll try."
When he entered the bedroom, Mia was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the oversized hoodie she'd worn the day before. Her eyes were puffy, her hair pulled into a loose, neglected bun. But she looked up when he came in.
"They're having the shower anyway," she said quietly, reading it in his expression.
"Yeah," Max replied. "They didn't want to cancel. They thought maybe… it could be something good. For both of us."
He held out the box. Mia took it in silence and opened it slowly. Inside was a soft, flowing dress in muted blush, a matching cardigan, and a delicate, simple necklace with a tiny silver "R" charm.
Her lips parted. "It's beautiful."
Max knelt in front of her. "So are you. Even when you're hurting."
She closed her eyes, and he could see the tears building again. But she didn't pull this time when he reached for her hand.
"I don't know if I can smile today," she whispered.
"You don't have to," he said. "Just come, be surrounded. Let them love you a little. Let them love Rowan."
Mia hesitated, then slowly nodded.""Okay. But only for a little while."
When Mia stepped into the backyard an hour later—cleaned up, quiet but composed—the entire family paused.
There were no squeals or over-the-top greetings—just warm, tearful smiles. Heather walked over first and gently pulled her into a hug. April and Ashley followed, then Charlotte, who held Mia for longer than anyone else.
No one said the words they were all thinking: this shower wasn't what anyone had expected, the baby they were celebrating wasn't home yet, and the joy was layered with fear.
Instead, they offered her laughter, food, cozy places to sit, and a table filled with thoughtful gifts—tiny onesies, blankets, board books, and a handcrafted mobile with stars and clouds. Jessie punched Max and whispered, "You look like you slept two hours. Champion-level parenting already."
And slowly, almost miraculously, the weight in Mia's shoulders began to ease.
There were tears, of course, especially when Mia opened a small framed print April had made with Rowan's name and the words: "Born early, loved fiercely."
But there was also something else—something softer.
Hope.
Mia and Max sat side by side and held hands without unbearable ache for the first time in days. They laughed—quiet, cautious laughter—but real, surrounded by the people who loved them most.
For a few sacred hours, the grief loosened its grip.
And in its place, a new promise quietly bloomed:
Rowan's story had only just begun.