The world inside the hospital room had shrunk to the size of a bassinet. The clinical smells, the distant hum of the hospital floor, the soft light of dawn filtering through the blinds—it all faded into a distant haze. There was only the three of them. Mina, exhausted and radiant. Adams, hollowed out and rebuilt in the span of a few hours. And him. Chosen.
He was swaddled tightly, a miniature burrito of new life, sleeping in the clear bassinet beside Mina's bed. Every few minutes, one of them would reach out, a finger gently stroking the impossibly soft skin of his cheek, as if to confirm he was real.
Adams hadn't left her side. He sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, his body thrumming with a residual adrenaline that had nowhere to go. He watched Mina watch their son, and the love in her eyes was a physical ache in his chest—a beautiful, terrifying ache.
"He has your nose," Mina whispered, her voice raspy from effort.
Adams leaned forward, a soft laugh escaping him. "He looks like a wrinkled old man. A very cute, very tiny wrinkled old man."
"He's perfect," she said, and the absolute certainty in her tone brooked no argument.
She looked from the baby to him, her gaze softening. "You were… amazing in there."
He shook his head, his throat tight. "I didn't do anything. You did all the work. You were… God, Mina, you were a warrior." The word wasn't strong enough. He had watched her travel to a place of pure, primal power, and he had been allowed to witness it. It was the greatest privilege of his life.
"You were there," she said simply. "That was everything."
The unspoken words hung between them: You weren't there last time. This birth had been a rewrite. A healing of an old wound they'd both carried.
The door to the room opened softly, and a nurse entered with a warm, kind smile. "Time for his first check-up, Mama. Papa, you can come watch if you'd like."
Adams's heart gave a nervous flutter. Papa. The title, in this context, felt both utterly right and like a costume he wasn't sure he deserved to wear yet. He looked at Mina, a silent question in his eyes.
"Go," she said, smiling tiredly. "Learn what to do."
He followed the nurse to the warmer in the corner of the room, feeling like a student about to take the most important exam of his life.
The nurse, sensing his anxiety, was gentle. "Alright, Papa, first lesson. The swaddle." She expertly unwrapped Chosen, who immediately flailed his tiny limbs in protest, his face scrunching up. "You want it snug, like a hug. Secure, but not too tight. He just spent nine months all cozy. He likes the pressure."
Adams watched, mesmerized, as she demonstrated the art of the perfect swaddle, tucking and folding until Chosen was a content little package once more.
"Your turn," she said, gesturing to a practice doll on the counter.
His large hands, which had once confidently signed million-dollar deals, fumbled with the thin receiving blanket. It was too small, too flimsy. The doll ended up looking like a lopsided parcel.
The nurse chuckled softly. "It takes practice. Here." She guided his hands, showing him the motion. "Fold, tuck, fold, tuck. There. See?"
On his third attempt, he managed a passable swaddle. A ridiculous surge of pride washed over him.
"Good!" the nurse encouraged. "Now, for the real test."
She handed him his son.
The moment Chosen's weight settled into his arms, every other thought vanished. The world narrowed to the warm, breathing reality of his son. He was so small, so fragile. Adams's hand, large enough to cradle the baby's entire body, supported his head with a tenderness that felt instinctual yet newly learned.
He looked down into the sleeping face, at the perfect bow of a mouth, the dark lashes dusting the cheeks. This was his son. His. Not an heir to a legacy he didn't build, but a person. A new story, just beginning.
A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it away.
"Hello, Chosen," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm your daddy. I'm going to… I'm going to try my very best for you. I promise."
He carried him back to Mina, moving with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. He laid Chosen gently in her waiting arms, his own feeling strangely empty without the weight.
He sank back into the chair, watching as Mina brought their son to her breast, a look of fierce, natural concentration on her face. It was the most ancient of pictures, and he was humbled to be part of it.
The sun was fully up now, filling the room with a golden light. The night of terror and effort was over. They were on the other side.
Adams reached out, his hand covering Mina's where it rested on the bedsheet. Their eyes met over the head of their sleeping son.
"We did it," she said softly.
"We did," he agreed. But his mind was already racing ahead. The tiny apartment. The radio station salary. The relentless noise of Gwarinpa. Was it enough for this perfect child? The old fear—the fear of not being enough, of failing to provide—crept back in, a sinister whisper at the edges of his joy.
As if reading his mind, Mina squeezed his hand. "We'll figure it out," she said. "Together."
The cliffhanger was no longer about the birth. It was about the aftermath. The profound joy of Chosen's arrival was now intertwined with the terrifying weight of responsibility. Adams had proven he could be there for the crisis. But could he be there for the thousands of ordinary days to come? Could he build a world worthy of the name they had given their son? The promise he'd whispered was now the only thing that mattered, and the road to keeping it stretched further than he could see.