The first thing Eliza noticed was the silence.
Not the fragile kind that trembled with anticipation—no waiting cries or baby monitor static or rustle of swaddling blankets. Just… silence. Real and rare.
Will's footsteps had faded down the front walk ten minutes ago, Lyra tucked safely in his arms, the baby bag over his shoulder, a sunhat snug on her tiny head. He hadn't asked Eliza to come. He'd simply kissed her temple and said, "We've got this. You stay."
And she had.
Now the house sat like a strange museum of early motherhood—pacifiers on the nightstand, bottles in the drying rack, tiny socks curled on the couch like sleeping mice. Her fingers twitched with habit: she almost picked them up.
Then she stopped.
She stood in the center of their living room and asked herself, "What do I want to do?"
Not need.Not should.Want.
It felt revolutionary.
Meanwhile, Will moved carefully through the path at Riverwalk Gardens, adjusting Lyra's head where she leaned against his chest in her sling.
She made a tiny, satisfied grunt and burrowed closer.
"Yup," he muttered with a smile. "You've got me wrapped around all ten of your teeny fingers."
Other parents passed by, offering knowing nods or comments.
"Oh, she's a daddy's girl, huh?""First one?""Enjoy this time. It doesn't last."
Will responded with warmth and soft jokes, but inside, he was entirely focused on every flicker of her expression, every shift in her breath. He couldn't believe she was his.
At a shaded bench overlooking the lake, he sat down, gently cupping the back of her head.
"You know," he said, his voice quiet, "your mom is stronger than anyone I've ever met. You're lucky."
Lyra blinked slowly, eyes unfocused but calm, as if absorbing every word into her bones.
"She carried you. She broke for you. And she's still figuring out how to breathe again. But she never once stopped loving you." He brushed a finger down her cheek. "Let's give her a little time today. Just her. Just Eliza."
Back home, Eliza sat on the edge of their bed and realized she hadn't really looked in a mirror in weeks.
Not looked.
She walked to the bathroom, flicked the light on, and stared.
There were dark circles. Her hair was tied back in a knot she couldn't remember doing. Her eyes looked older. But there was something else too—something steadier, more rooted.
She didn't look like the ice queen who once ran boardrooms.
She looked like someone who had lost things and gained others and was still learning how to hold both.
With a breath, she stepped into the shower—no clock ticking in her head. No voice in her ear. Just steam and warmth and the feeling of her own hands reclaiming her own skin.
Afterward, she curled on the sofa in an oversized cardigan, a book in her lap, warm tea in her palm, and stared out the window.
She didn't read a word.
She just was.
And it was enough.
By the time Will returned, the house smelled faintly of bergamot and citrus.
Eliza opened the door with a calm smile, eyes rimmed with the shimmer of recent tears.
"How was she?" she asked, reaching out to gently touch Lyra's cheek.
"Perfect," Will murmured, handing her over with a small sigh of reluctance. "Didn't fuss once."
"And you?" Eliza raised a brow.
Will grinned. "Didn't panic once."
She laughed—a soft, low sound she hadn't heard in a while. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For this," she whispered, kissing his jaw. "For knowing what I needed before I did."
They stood in the entryway like that for a while—one daughter nestled between two parents, each holding her as if the world had already given them everything they needed.
Because maybe it had.