Dominic
The second I stepped inside, I couldn't breathe.
The room was dim, quiet—filled with that soft sterile calm that only hospitals ever had. But all of it vanished the moment my eyes landed on her.
Lila.
She was sitting up in the bed, pale and exhausted, her hair a little damp at the temples, loose around her face. She looked smaller than I remembered, but somehow stronger. The kind of strength forged in fire, not comfort.
And in her arms…
There she was.
Wrapped in a soft pink blanket, nestled against Lila's chest like she belonged there.
Tiny.
Perfect.
Our daughter.
My knees almost buckled.
Lila didn't say anything at first. She just looked at me, her eyes unreadable. She wasn't crying. She wasn't smiling. She was… steady. Like she was waiting to see what I would do.
My eyes burned instantly.
"I…" I tried to speak, but my voice cracked. "I didn't know."
"I know," she said softly. Not accusing. Just… stating a fact.
The pain in my chest expanded. Like it was making room for everything I'd missed. Every ultrasound. Every late-night kick. Every moment she had whispered to our child alone.
"I would've come," I said, my voice barely a rasp. "I would've—God, Lila—I would've done everything differently."
"I know," she said again. Still calm.
But my legs couldn't hold it anymore.
I dropped to my knees beside the bed, covering my mouth with both hands as the tears came—hot, unrelenting, shattering every piece of the man I thought I had to be.
I didn't care about pride. Or appearances. Or the ache in my spine from kneeling on a hard floor.
I was looking at the only two people in this world who mattered.
And I had nearly lost them both.
Lila shifted slightly, wincing, and her mother—who had been standing quietly by the wall—stepped forward.
"Come on," she whispered to her husband. "Let's give them a minute."
They left without another word, closing the door softly behind them.
Silence.
Just the sound of my own ragged breathing.
Lila stared down at our daughter, then looked back at me.
"Do you want to hold her?" she asked.
I nodded so hard I thought my neck might snap.
She adjusted gently, cradling the baby with a grace I didn't deserve to witness. When she passed her to me, my arms trembled.
She was warm.
So impossibly small. Her fingers curled into a loose fist as I held her to my chest, afraid I might break her just by touching her.
"She…" My voice cracked again. "She looks like you."
"She has your mouth," Lila whispered.
I couldn't stop the tears. I didn't even try.
I was sobbing now—uncontrollably, silently, like every tear had waited until this exact second to fall. I pressed a kiss to her tiny forehead and rested my cheek against hers.
"I'm so sorry," I choked. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."
Lila was quiet.
But she didn't take her back.
And that silence—that trust—was louder than any forgiveness she could've spoken.
I held my daughter like she was the only anchor in the storm of everything I'd broken.
And for the first time in my entire life…
I wanted nothing more than to be whole again.