Hope grew fast.
Too fast, Lina thought. Every day she seemed different—more alert, more aware, more herself.
Her first smile came at six weeks. Lina was changing her diaper, making silly faces, and suddenly Hope smiled. A real smile, not gas.
"KAI!" she screamed. "She smiled! She actually smiled!"
Kai came running, and they both hovered over the baby, trying to get another smile. Hope obliged, and they both cried.
"She's perfect," Kai whispered. "Absolutely perfect."
Her first laugh came at four months.
Kai was making funny faces, nonsense sounds, and Hope giggled—a real giggle, delighted and surprised. Kai froze, then grinned.
"Did you hear that? She laughed! I made her laugh!"
Lina watched from the doorway, heart full. "You're her favorite person."
"I'm her dad. That's the job."
Hope rolled over at five months, sat up at seven, crawled at nine.
Each milestone brought joy and a little sadness. She was growing. Changing. Becoming less a baby and more a person.
"I miss the newborn stage," Lina admitted one night.
"Really? The no-sleep, constant-feeding, totally-dependent stage?"
"I know it was hard. But she was so tiny. So new." Lina smiled sadly. "I just want to freeze time sometimes."
Kai pulled her close. "I know. But watching her grow is pretty amazing too."
"It is. It really is."
At twelve months, Hope took her first steps.
She'd been cruising furniture for weeks, pulling herself up, taking tentative steps while holding on. Then one day, she let go.
And walked.
Three wobbly steps before falling into Lina's arms.
"Did you see that?" Lina cried. "She walked! She really walked!"
Kai was already recording on his phone, tears in his eyes. "I got it. I got every second."
Hope, oblivious to her achievement, clapped her hands and laughed.
"Our girl," Lina whispered. "Growing up."