The truth was that Nolan had ordered one late one night and assembled it while I was asleep.
I found him sitting on the nursery floor at one in the morning, surrounded by screws and wooden rails.
“You weren’t supposed to do that yet,” I said.
He looked at the half-finished crib.
“I know.”
Neither of us said what we were thinking.
What if we needed it this time?
What if, finally, a baby was actually coming home?
The pregnancy kept going.
Thirty weeks.
Thirty-four.
Thirty-eight.
Every appointment felt like crossing a bridge I had expected to collapse beneath me.
Then, just before five in the morning on a Wednesday, I woke Nolan and told him my contractions had started.
He stared at me for several seconds before jumping out of bed.
Twenty minutes later, I noticed he was wearing one black sneaker and one gray one.
For the first time in months, I laughed without immediately feeling guilty for being happy.
Labor lasted most of the day.
Nolan stayed beside me the entire time.
He held my hand, brought me ice chips, rubbed my back, and repeatedly asked the nurses whether everything still looked normal.
Just after midnight, the room suddenly became busier.
A nurse moved a tray.
The doctor gave several quick instructions.
Then I heard a cry.
Loud.
Angry.
Perfect.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
Our daughter was here.
Nolan pressed his forehead against mine.
“She’s crying.”
I was already crying too.
“She made it.”
The nurse placed our daughter against my chest for only a moment before explaining that they needed to do the usual newborn checks.
I hated letting her go, even though she was only being moved a few feet away.
“She’s okay?” I asked.
The pediatric nurse smiled.
“She looks wonderful.”
From the bed, I watched Nolan walk over to the warming station.
He was openly crying by then.
I had seen my husband cry after every miscarriage.
I had seen him cry in hospital parking lots and once in the middle of a grocery store after walking past a display of baby formula.
But I had never seen him cry like that.
This was relief.
He leaned closer to our daughter while the nurse checked her.
Then he smiled.
“She has a little birthmark.”
“What kind?”
“Dark brown. Kind of oval.”
He pointed near his own collarbone.
“Right here, on her left side. It looks like somebody pressed a thumb into paint and stamped her.”
The nurse laughed.
“That’s actually a pretty good description.”
I closed my eyes.
For once, there was nothing wrong.
No doctor was coming toward us with a careful expression.
No ultrasound screen had gone silent.
Our daughter was alive.
She was healthy.
She even had a tiny mark Nolan was already teasing her about.
We named her Wren.
