February 14th, 1973
The contractions had started at midnight, gentle at first but steadily building in intensity as the hours passed. Dr. Evelyn Richards gripped her husband's hand, breathing through each wave of pain while Nathaniel whispered encouragement and checked his watch obsessively.
"It's Valentine's Day," Evelyn gasped between contractions as they finally made their way to the hospital at 4 AM. "Our baby is going to be born on Valentine's Day."
"The most romantic day of the year," Nathaniel agreed, helping her into the wheelchair at Massachusetts General Hospital. "What better day for our little miracle to arrive?"
They had been trying to have children for nearly five years. Evelyn's pregnancy had been difficult, marked by months of bed rest and careful monitoring. The doctors had warned them about possible complications, but as February 14th dawned crisp and clear, both parents felt an overwhelming sense of anticipation rather than fear.
Dr. Sarah Smith, their obstetrician, examined Evelyn one final time in the delivery room. "You're ready, Evelyn. It's time to meet your baby."
Nathaniel stood beside the bed, still wearing his Nobel Prize ceremony tie from the previous night's celebration dinner. He had won the prize just six months earlier for his groundbreaking work in theoretical physics, but nothing in his scientific career had prepared him for this moment.
"I can see the head!" Dr. Smith announced. "One more push, Evelyn!"
At exactly 6:42 AM, Reed Franklin Richards entered the world with a strong, healthy cry that filled the delivery room before the nurse even finished clearing his airways. The sound was music to his parents' ears, the confirmation they had prayed for that their son was alive and well.
"It's a boy!" Dr. Smith announced, lifting the squirming, crying baby for his parents to see. "And he's perfect!"
Nathaniel's legs nearly gave out as he saw his son for the first time. The baby was red and wrinkled and covered in vernix, but to Nathaniel he was the most beautiful thing in the universe. Tears streamed down his face as the reality of fatherhood hit him like a physical force.
"Evelyn, look at him," Nathaniel whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. "Look at our son."
The nurse quickly cleaned Reed and wrapped him in a soft blue blanket before placing him in Evelyn's arms. Despite her exhaustion from twelve hours of labor, Evelyn's face lit up with pure joy as she looked down at their baby.
"Hello, little one," she whispered, her finger gently stroking Reed's cheek. "I'm your mommy."
Reed's crying stopped almost immediately when he heard his mother's voice. His eyes, which had been squeezed shut, slowly opened to reveal deep blue irises that seemed to focus on Evelyn's face with remarkable clarity for a newborn.
"Look at those eyes, Nathaniel," Evelyn marveled, tears of joy streaming down her face. "He's already looking around like he's trying to figure everything out."
"Happy Valentine's Day to us," Nathaniel whispered, leaning down to kiss his wife's forehead before gently touching his son's tiny hand. "Our greatest gift to each other."
Dr. Nathaniel Richards had written equations describing the fundamental forces of the universe. His theories had helped reshape humanity's understanding of space and time. But holding his newborn son felt like a greater achievement than any scientific discovery he had ever made.
"Can I hold him?" Nathaniel asked, his hands trembling slightly with nervous excitement.
Evelyn carefully transferred Reed to his father's arms, watching as Nathaniel's expression transformed into one of absolute wonder. The man who had spent his career contemplating the infinite cosmos now held his own small piece of the universe in his arms.
"Our little miracle," Nathaniel said softly, the nickname that would stick for years to come. "Born on the day of love."
Reed seemed to study his father's face with an intensity that was unusual for a newborn. His tiny fingers curled around Nathaniel's thumb with what felt like deliberate purpose rather than simple reflex.
"He's got quite a grip," Nathaniel marveled, gently moving his thumb and watching Reed's fingers adjust their hold. "Strong hands for a scientist."
"Maybe he'll be an engineer like his grandfather," Evelyn suggested, remembering Nathaniel's clockmaker father who had built the beautiful orrery that still graced their study.
"Or a biologist like his brilliant mother," Nathaniel countered, carefully supporting Reed's head as he shifted position. "Look how alert he is. Most babies sleep constantly for the first few weeks, but he seems determined to stay awake and observe everything."
The nurses bustled around them, performing the routine checks and procedures that followed every birth. Reed's Apgar scores were perfect, his reflexes normal, his breathing strong and steady. But what struck everyone in the delivery room was his unusual alertness and the way his eyes seemed to track movement and focus on faces.
"I've been delivering babies for twenty years," Dr. Smith commented as she completed Reed's initial examination, "and I've never seen a newborn so aware of his surroundings. Most babies this age can barely focus their eyes, but he's actually making eye contact."
"He gets that from both sides of the family," Evelyn said proudly, watching Reed turn his head toward the sound of her voice. "We come from a long line of people who are too curious for their own good."
Over the next few hours, as word spread through the hospital and then to their friends and colleagues, visitors began arriving to meet the newest member of the Richards family. But Nathaniel and Evelyn barely noticed the parade of well-wishers. They were completely absorbed in their son, marveling at every tiny movement and sound.
"He's beautiful," said Dr. Patricia Morrison, Evelyn's research partner, as she peered into Reed's bassinet. "And so alert! Look at the way he's studying my face."
"That's what we keep noticing," Nathaniel said, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. "It's like he's conducting his own little scientific study of everyone he meets."
Professor James Wheeler, Nathaniel's mentor from Princeton, arrived that evening carrying a small gift wrapped in blue paper. "For the future Nobel laureate," he said with a wink, handing the package to Nathaniel.
Inside was a small, beautifully crafted mobile featuring the planets of the solar system, each one painted in accurate colors and positioned according to their relative sizes. "I thought he should start learning about the cosmos as early as possible," Professor Wheeler explained.
"It's perfect," Evelyn said, imagining the mobile hanging over Reed's crib. "His first astronomy lesson."
As the evening settled into night, the visitors departed and the hospital grew quiet. Nathaniel and Evelyn found themselves alone with their son for the first time since his birth. Reed had finally fallen asleep after nursing, his tiny chest rising and falling with perfect rhythm.
"I can't believe he's really here," Evelyn whispered, sitting in the bedside chair with Reed cradled in her arms. "After all those years of trying, all the worries during pregnancy, he's finally here and he's perfect."
"More than perfect," Nathaniel agreed, pulling his chair closer so he could watch Reed sleep. "He's our miracle."
They sat in comfortable silence for a long time, just watching their son sleep and breathing in the reality of their changed lives. Everything they had worked for, everything they had dreamed about, had led to this moment.
"What do you think he'll become?" Evelyn asked quietly. "What kind of man will our little Reed grow up to be?"
"Someone who changes the world," Nathaniel said without hesitation. "Look at him, Evelyn. Even sleeping, you can see the intelligence in his face. He's going to do extraordinary things."
"As long as he's happy," Evelyn added, her maternal instincts already protective of her newborn son. "I don't care if he becomes a famous scientist or a simple teacher. I just want him to be happy and surrounded by people who love him."
"He will be," Nathaniel promised, gently stroking Reed's soft hair. "We'll make sure of it."
Reed stirred slightly in his sleep, his tiny mouth moving as if he were already trying to form words. Both parents held their breath, waiting to see if he would wake, but he settled back into peaceful slumber.
"Sweet dreams, little miracle," Evelyn whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to Reed's forehead. "Dream of all the wonderful discoveries waiting for you."
As the clock struck midnight, ending Reed's first day of life, Nathaniel and Evelyn Richards looked down at their sleeping son and felt their hearts overflow with love and possibility. They had no way of knowing the challenges that lay ahead, the heartbreak and loss that would test their family in unimaginable ways.
But on this perfect Valentine's Day night, with their miracle child safe in their arms, the future seemed filled with nothing but promise. Reed Franklin Richards had entered the world surrounded by love, and that love would sustain him through everything that was to come.
"We're going to spoil him rotten," Evelyn admitted, unable to take her eyes off Reed's peaceful face.
"Good," Nathaniel replied, his voice soft with contentment. "He's our miracle child. He deserves to be spoiled."
Outside their hospital room window, the stars shone down on Boston with the same light that had inspired countless generations of dreamers and scientists. Soon, their son would look up at those same stars and wonder about the mysteries they held. But for now, Reed Richards slept peacefully in his parents' arms, the beloved child who would one day stretch his brilliant mind toward the infinite cosmos and discover that even the impossible could sometimes be achieved through love, determination, and the courage to reach for the stars.
—
Three days after Reed's birth, Nathaniel carefully carried his son's car seat to their waiting car while Evelyn walked slowly beside them, still recovering from delivery but glowing with happiness. The February air was crisp, and they had bundled Reed in the soft blue blanket that Evelyn's mother had knitted during the pregnancy.
"First car ride, little man," Nathaniel said softly as he secured the car seat with the precision of an engineer. He had spent weeks reading safety manuals and practicing the installation, determined that every detail of his son's life would be perfect.
During the drive home to their colonial house in Cambridge, Reed remained peacefully asleep, seemingly unbothered by the gentle motion of the car. Evelyn turned in her seat every few minutes to check on him, her heart overflowing with the simple joy of having her baby safe and sound.
"I still can't believe he's ours," she whispered as they pulled into their driveway. "After all those years of hoping and trying, he's finally here."
"Believe it," Nathaniel said, parking the car and immediately moving to get Reed's carrier. "Our son is home."
The house had been prepared for weeks in anticipation of this moment. The nursery that Nathaniel had painted a soothing sage green was ready with a crib, changing table, and rocking chair positioned near the window where Evelyn could nurse while looking out at their garden. But for the first few weeks, Reed's bassinet lived in their bedroom, close enough that they could hear every breath and respond to every need.
"Welcome home, Reed," Evelyn said as they crossed the threshold, her voice thick with emotion. "This is where you're going to grow up, where you're going to learn about the world, where you're going to become the amazing person we know you'll be."
Those first weeks at home were a blur of feeding schedules, diaper changes, and sleepless nights punctuated by moments of pure wonder. Reed seemed to thrive on attention, his eyes tracking his parents' movements around the room with an alertness that impressed every visitor.
"Most newborns barely focus on anything," observed Dr. Peterson during Reed's first home visit. "But Reed actually seems to be studying your faces. It's remarkable cognitive development for such a young baby."
Nathaniel and Evelyn took turns with the night feedings, but often they would both wake up and end up sitting together in the nursery, watching Reed nurse or simply observing him sleep. Every tiny movement, every soft sound, every change in expression was fascinating to them.
"Look at his hands," Evelyn marveled one morning as Reed gripped her finger during feeding. "He's so deliberate about everything, even as a newborn. It's like he's already trying to figure out how everything works."
"Just like his mother," Nathaniel said, photographing the moment. "Always investigating, always curious."
—
By three months, Reed was already showing signs of the extraordinary curiosity that would define his life. He would lie in his crib, staring at the mobile of planets that Professor Wheeler had given him, watching each sphere rotate with intense concentration. When Nathaniel would wind the mobile to make it spin, Reed's eyes would follow the planetary movements with mathematical precision.
"He's tracking orbital mechanics," Nathaniel joked to Evelyn one afternoon as they watched Reed study his mobile. "Our three-month-old is already understanding celestial motion."
"Don't be ridiculous," Evelyn laughed, but she couldn't deny that Reed's focus seemed unusually intense for such a young baby.
When Nathaniel held up different colored objects during tummy time, Reed would reach for them with deliberate precision rather than the random grasping typical of infants. His coordination was developing faster than expected, and his responses to stimuli seemed almost thoughtful.
"It's like he's conducting experiments," Evelyn observed during one of their play sessions. "Look at the way he's testing different ways to grab that rattle. He's problem-solving."
Reed's first laugh came at four months when Nathaniel was demonstrating the properties of a prism, creating rainbow patterns on the nursery wall. The baby's delighted giggles filled the room as he watched the colored light dance across the ceiling, his tiny hands reaching toward the patterns as if trying to catch them.
"He likes physics already," Nathaniel said proudly, moving the prism to create different patterns. "Just wait until he's old enough for real experiments."
The moment that truly convinced them their son was exceptional came when Reed was eight months old. It was a Saturday morning in October, and Nathaniel was sitting on the living room floor grading papers while Reed played with his collection of wooden blocks nearby. The autumn sunlight streamed through the windows, and classical music played softly on the stereo.
Reed had been pulling himself up on furniture for several weeks, using the coffee table and couch to practice standing. But this morning, something was different. As Nathaniel watched, Reed carefully positioned himself next to the coffee table, gripping its edge with his chubby hands while looking across the room at his father with unmistakable intent.
"What are you thinking about, little man?" Nathaniel asked, setting aside his papers to give Reed his full attention.
Reed studied the distance between himself and his father with the serious expression of someone solving a complex problem. He bounced slightly on his feet, testing his balance, then looked back at Nathaniel with a determination that was remarkable in such a young child.
"Come on, Reed," Nathaniel said encouragingly, patting his knees and opening his arms. "Come to Daddy."
For a moment, nothing happened. Reed stood at the coffee table, his hands gripping the edge while he seemed to calculate the physics of walking. Then, with deliberate care, he released his grip on the table.
"Evelyn!" Nathaniel called out, his voice filled with excitement. "Come quick! I think he's going to walk!"
Evelyn rushed in from the kitchen where she'd been preparing Reed's morning bottle, arriving just in time to see their son sway unsteadily for a moment before taking his first deliberate step toward his father.
"Oh my goodness!" Evelyn gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Reed, you're walking!"
"That's it, sweetheart!" she cheered, kneeling beside Nathaniel. "Come to Mommy and Daddy!"
Reed took another step, then another, his face serious with concentration but his eyes bright with excitement. His balance was wobbly, his steps uncertain, but his determination was absolute. When he finally reached his parents' outstretched arms after taking six independent steps, both Nathaniel and Evelyn burst into tears of joy.
"I can't believe it," Evelyn sobbed happily as Nathaniel scooped Reed up and spun him around. "Eight months old and already walking!"
"Our little genius," Nathaniel marveled, holding Reed close while Evelyn fumbled for the camera. "Most babies don't walk until they're over a year old."
"But then again," Evelyn said, snapping photos of the celebration, "Reed has never been most babies."
Reed seemed to understand that he had accomplished something remarkable. He giggled and clapped his hands, then looked toward the coffee table as if already planning his next adventure. For the rest of the day, he practiced his new skill with the dedication of a scientist perfecting an experiment.
"He's not just walking," Nathaniel observed as they watched Reed toddle around the living room that evening. "He's studying walking. Look at how he's testing different approaches, adjusting his balance, learning from each attempt."
"It's like he's conducting research on locomotion," Evelyn agreed, following close behind Reed to catch him if he fell. "Our baby is approaching walking like a scientific discipline."
—
By his first birthday in February 1974, Reed's exceptional nature was undeniable to everyone who met him. He spoke his first words early, but more remarkably, he seemed to understand complex concepts that should have been far beyond an infant's comprehension.
During their daily walks around Cambridge, Nathaniel would point out different phenomena and explain them in simple terms. When he explained why the sky was blue, Reed would listen with an intensity that suggested genuine understanding rather than simple fascination with his father's voice.
"The molecules in the air scatter blue light more than other colors," Nathaniel would say, carrying Reed and pointing at the sky. "That's why we see blue during the day."
Reed would look thoughtfully at the sky, then at his father, then back at the sky, as if processing this information and filing it away for future reference.
"He's absorbing everything," Evelyn observed one afternoon as they watched Reed methodically take apart his toy telephone to examine the components inside. "Look how systematic he is about exploring that toy. That's not normal one-year-old behavior."
"Maybe normal is overrated," Nathaniel replied, unable to hide his pride as Reed carefully separated each piece of the plastic phone. "He's going to do extraordinary things, Evelyn. I can feel it."
Reed's fascination with understanding how things worked became apparent in everything he did. His wooden blocks weren't just for stacking; he used them to explore balance and gravity, building increasingly complex structures and observing how they fell. His stuffed animals weren't just for cuddling; he examined their construction, figuring out how the seams worked and why the stuffing made them soft.
"He treats every toy like a scientific instrument," Evelyn marveled one evening as they watched Reed conduct what appeared to be systematic experiments with his bath toys. "Look at how he's testing which ones float and which ones sink."
When Reed turned eighteen months old, Nathaniel bought him a music box with a visible mechanism, thinking he would enjoy the melody. Instead, Reed spent hours watching the tiny metal teeth pluck the rotating cylinder, his small fingers tracing the patterns with scientific precision.
"He's not just enjoying the music," Evelyn said, watching Reed's systematic exploration. "He's researching the relationship between the mechanical components and the sound they produce."
One afternoon, Reed managed to open the music box and carefully removed some of the metal teeth. When the melody changed, he looked delighted rather than upset, as if he had successfully tested a hypothesis about how the mechanism worked.
"Uh oh," Nathaniel said, discovering the dismantled toy. "Reed broke his music box."
"No," Evelyn corrected, studying their son's handiwork with growing amazement. "Reed improved his music box. Look at which teeth he removed. He created a completely different harmonic pattern. That's not destruction, that's engineering."
—
The Richards household became a laboratory of love, learning, and laughter that defied every stereotype about academic families. Far from the cold, sterile environment one might expect from two renowned scientists, their home pulsed with warmth and wonder. Every room told a story of discovery, from the kitchen where Evelyn taught Reed about chemical reactions through cooking, to the living room where Nathaniel demonstrated wave properties using the piano.
But it was the study that truly captured Reed's imagination, dominated by Nathaniel's pride and joy: a magnificent brass orrery that stood nearly four feet tall, its intricate gears and planetary spheres gleaming in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the windows. The mechanical wonder showed the solar system in perfect miniature, with each planet following its proper orbital path around a golden sun at the center.
Reed's first encounter with the orrery happened on a rainy Saturday afternoon when he was three years old. He had been following his father around the house, chattering about everything and nothing, when Nathaniel led him into the study and closed the door behind them.
"Reed, I want to show you something very special," Nathaniel said, his voice carrying the excitement of someone about to share a treasured secret. "This is where my love of science truly began."
Reed's eyes widened as he took in the magnificent contraption for the first time. The brass gleamed like gold, and the intricate mechanisms seemed to pulse with their own life. Tiny planets hung suspended in perfect formation, each one detailed and beautiful in its own right.
"What is it, Daddy?" Reed whispered, instinctively understanding that he was in the presence of something extraordinary.
"This is called an orrery," Nathaniel explained, kneeling beside his son. "It shows how all the planets in our solar system move around the sun. My father built this with his own hands when I was about your age."
"Your daddy made this?" Reed asked, his small hands reaching toward the gleaming mechanism before stopping, sensing that permission was needed.
"He did indeed," Nathaniel said, his voice warm with memory. "My father was a watchmaker, Reed. He understood gears and springs and all the tiny mechanisms that make timepieces work. But he was also a dreamer who fell in love with astronomy."
Nathaniel's expression grew thoughtful as he remembered his own childhood. "Every night after dinner, my father would bring me into his workshop and show me how to build things with my hands. He taught me that understanding how something works is the first step to making it better. 'Precision and patience, Nathaniel,' he used to say. 'Those are the tools that unlock the universe's secrets.'"
"Did Uncle Gary like it too?" Reed asked, remembering the few times he'd met his father's brother.
Nathaniel's smile faltered slightly. "My brother Gary... he was more interested in other things. Cars, sports, what he called 'real world' pursuits. He thought our father was wasting time on 'useless contraptions' and 'fairy tale science.' It always made me sad that Gary couldn't see the wonder in what we were doing."
"Why didn't he like it?"
"Sometimes people are afraid of things they don't understand," Nathaniel explained gently. "Gary saw complexity and felt overwhelmed. But you and I, Reed, we see complexity and feel excited. We want to know how it works, why it works, what we can learn from it."
Reed nodded solemnly, though he was only three and didn't fully grasp the implications of his father's words. What he did understand was that this beautiful machine represented something important to his father, and therefore it was important to him too.
"Can you make it move?" Reed asked, his voice hushed with anticipation.
"Of course," Nathaniel said, his earlier melancholy replaced by enthusiasm. "But first, let me show you something amazing."
He pointed to the various spheres suspended in the mechanism. "Each of these represents a world, Reed. A real place in space that actually exists. This blue one is Earth, our home. And see this little silver ball next to it? That's the Moon."
"We went there!" Reed exclaimed, his earlier reverence forgotten in his excitement. "The astronauts went there!"
Nathaniel's face lit up with joy at his son's enthusiasm. "We did indeed! Just seven years ago, in 1969, three brave men climbed aboard a rocket bigger than our house and flew all the way to the Moon. Neil Armstrong was the first human being to step onto another world."
He pulled out a photograph from the bookshelf, showing the famous image of Buzz Aldrin on the lunar surface. "When Neil Armstrong stepped onto the Moon, he said something that still gives me chills: 'That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.' Do you know what that means, Reed?"
Reed shook his head, studying the photograph with the intense concentration he brought to everything that fascinated him.
"It means that even though it was just one man taking one step, it represented something much bigger," Nathaniel explained, his voice filled with the same wonder he'd felt watching the landing on television. "It showed that human beings could leave Earth and explore the universe. It was the beginning of our greatest adventure."
Now Nathaniel began to crank the handle of the orrery, and Reed watched in absolute fascination as the planets began their stately dance around the golden sun. Earth and its moon orbited together, while Mars traced its longer path, and Venus spun closer to the center.
"This is how it really works, Reed," Nathaniel said softly. "Right now, while we're standing here in our house, Earth is spinning through space at thousands of miles per hour, carrying us along with it. We're passengers on a spaceship called Earth, traveling around the sun."
Reed's mouth fell open as he tried to process this information. "We're moving right now?"
"We're moving incredibly fast right now," Nathaniel confirmed. "But it doesn't feel like it because everything around us is moving at the same speed. It's like being in a car on a smooth highway—you don't feel the motion unless you look out the window."
As the orrery continued its mechanical ballet, Nathaniel began to speak about the vastness of space in terms a three-year-old could begin to understand. "You know how big our house feels to you, Reed? Well, our house is like a tiny grain of sand compared to Earth. And Earth is like a grain of sand compared to the sun. And the sun is like a grain of sand compared to how far it is to the nearest star."
Reed stared at the orrery with growing amazement. "How far is that?"
"So far that if you could travel at the speed of light—the fastest thing in the universe—it would take you four years just to reach the nearest star. And there are billions and billions of stars out there, each one possibly having planets of its own."
"Are there people on them?"
"We don't know yet," Nathaniel said, and Reed could hear the excitement in his father's voice. "That's one of the great mysteries we haven't solved. The universe is so vast, so full of wonders, that we've barely begun to explore it. We've sent people to the Moon, which is practically in our backyard compared to the rest of the universe."
Reed was quiet for a long moment, processing this incredible information. Finally, he asked, "Will I ever get to see them? The other stars?"
"Maybe not with your own eyes," Nathaniel said gently, "but you might build telescopes that can see farther than any telescope today. You might design rockets that can travel faster than any rocket we've built. You might discover things about the universe that no one has ever imagined."
From that moment, Reed was completely hooked. Every evening after dinner became story time about space exploration. Nathaniel would wind the orrery and tell tales of brave astronauts, while Reed asked endless questions about rockets and stars and the possibility of visiting other worlds.
"Tell me about the rocket again, Daddy," Reed would beg, never tiring of hearing about the massive Saturn V that had carried humans to the Moon.
"Well," Nathaniel would begin, settling into his favorite chair while Reed sat cross-legged on the floor beside the orrery, "imagine a building thirty-six stories tall, but instead of apartments and offices, it's filled with fuel and engines powerful enough to break free from Earth's gravity. The astronauts sat at the very top in a tiny capsule, no bigger than our bathroom."
"Weren't they scared?" Reed would ask, the same question every time, but always eager to hear the answer.
"I'm sure they were terrified," Nathaniel would admit. "But they were also excited. They knew they were doing something that had never been done before, something that would inspire children like you to dream of reaching even further."
Reed would nod seriously, already imagining himself in a rocket ship, exploring distant worlds and making discoveries that would change everything.
Evelyn often joined these evening sessions, bringing her own expertise to bear on their cosmic discussions. "You know, Reed," she said one evening as they watched the orrery turn, "the human body wasn't designed for space travel. In zero gravity, astronauts' bones get weaker and their muscles shrink. Their hearts have to work differently because blood doesn't flow the same way."
"But they figured out how to solve those problems," Nathaniel added, always ready to emphasize the power of human ingenuity. "That's what engineers and scientists do, Reed. We identify challenges and find solutions. We never accept that something is impossible—we just accept that we haven't figured out how to do it yet."
This philosophy became central to Reed's developing worldview. No problem was too big, no question too difficult. Everything could be understood if you studied it carefully enough and approached it with the right tools.