Two days later, they walked into their glass-walled, silent, perfect tomb carrying a seven-pound, crying, biological fact.
The house was not ready. They were not ready. In their "A-type" efficiency, they'd had a state-of-the-art nursery suite installed in 48 hours, but they hadn't been prepared for the sheer reality of it. The reality was that Lia hated the $5,000, "ergonomically-designed" bassinet and would only sleep if she was in a $30 car seat, which they placed in the middle of their vast, empty living room.
The house, once a monument to their sterile success, was instantly undone. It was no longer quiet. It was filled with new sounds: the hiss of a bottle warmer, the static-pop of a high-tech baby monitor, the off-key, electronic lullaby from a hanging mobile, and, most revolutionary of all, the sound of crying.
Eunice and Karlman, the "A-types" who had conquered their worlds, were undone by a seven-pound dictator.
But they were happy.
It wasn't just joy; it was purpose. The fifteen years of thwarted, frustrated, "A-type" energy now had a singular, all-consuming focus: Lia.
Their grief, they realized, had simply been an engine without a purpose. Now, that engine was attached to a new project. And, as always, they excelled.
Karlman, the data analyst, threw himself into the logistics. He created a master-schedule spreadsheet that tracked feeding times (in milliliters), sleep duration (in 15-minute intervals), and diaper output (categorized by type). It was color-coded.
"See?" he'd say, his eyes bright at 3 a.m., holding his phone up to a bleary-eyed Eunice. "Her REM-cycle efficiency is up 14% from last week. And her 'input-to-output' ratio is optimizing perfectly. We're winning."
Eunice, the strategist, focused on development. The second bedroom, the one that had been white for 15 years, was now a "neuro-stimulative environment." She read not "Goodnight Moon," but The Economist to Lia during tummy time.
"And that, Lia," she'd murmur, pointing to a chart in the magazine, "is why the commodities market is fundamentally unstable. Never trust it. Your portfolio should be in diversified, long-term growth funds."
Lia, bright and loving, would just gurgle and blow a spit bubble, her dark eyes tracking the movement of her mother's face.
They were, for the first time in their marriage, not "Eunice-and-Karlman-against-the-world." They were a family. They were a unit.
Their old friends, the ones who had "circled back" and never returned, heard the news. The adoption was a shock. It was... public. And it was a success. Slowly, cautiously, the world that had shunned them began to tiptoe back. Gifts appeared on their doorstep. A silver rattle from Tiffany's. A cashmere baby blanket. An invitation to a "Mommy and Me" yoga class.
Eunice, holding a colicky Lia, looked at a handwritten note from a woman who had "Read" her texts for a decade. She dropped the note, and the $300 baby-carrier it came with, into the recycling bin.
"We don't need them," she told Karlman, as she watched Lia finally, miraculously, fall asleep on her chest. "We never did."
The real joy wasn't in the data or the neuro-stimulation. It was in the small, tactile, unplanned moments that defied all their 'A-type' scheduling.
It was Karlman, falling asleep in the high-tech glider, his hand still on the rocker, his suit jacket still on, because he'd come home from a 14-hour day and "just wanted to hold her for a minute."
It was Eunice, her severe hair in a messy bun, no makeup, a smear of pureed pears on her silk blouse, making a 'raspberry' sound on Lia's stomach and laughing—a real, deep, unpracticed belly laugh—when Lia shrieked with delight.
They were a true family. The "curse," the shadow that had defined them, was gone. It had no power here. It couldn't survive in a house this loud, this messy, this bright.
One night, six months in, Karlman came home to find them not in the nursery, but on the floor of the main living room, the one with the glass walls overlooking the city. Eunice was on her back, and Lia was "flying" on her shins, both of them babbling.
He didn't speak. He just stood there, watching his wife, the ice queen, the strategist, the woman who had wept in a motel parking lot, and his daughter, the impossible, miraculous girl who had saved them.
Eunice looked over and saw him. She smiled. It was the smile from their first date. All the armor was gone.
"You're late," she said.
"I'm not," he replied, undoing his tie as he walked over to join them on the floor. "I'm right on time."