On the morning they admitted her for the procedure, the hospital smelled of antiseptic and coffee. Elaine pressed a kiss to her forehead that tasted like the rosemary back home. June sat steady, fingers laced through Brianna’s. They were a small island in a room of machines.

Recovery was slow. There were nights when the sound of the monitor felt overbearing and others when the small, live noises of a sleeping baby were all the music Brianna needed. Elaine learned to stand by the crib without being intrusive; June discovered an uncanny skill for every midnight emergency. They argued about small things and apologized quickly, because they had learned the value of time and the brevity of regret.

She’d been on bed rest for two months now. A placenta previa at twenty-eight weeks: the doctor’s voice, soft and clinical, had been another world’s language. No lifting. No walking unassisted. No risk. The rules felt like thin ropes wrapped around her limbs, and every precaution was a reminder of fragility — of a life growing quieter and more precious inside her.

“No,” she said. “Maybe just… us.”