A nurse pulled the blanket tighter, her hands careful, already preparing for the next unbearable step.
“Would you like to hold him?” she asked softly.
Rachel’s lips parted, but no sound came. Tears slid sideways into her hair as she stared at the ceiling, her mind refusing to catch up with reality. Mark nodded, hands shaking as the nurse guided the small, silent weight into his arms.
Then a new voice entered the room.
“I want to see him.”
Small. Unsteady. Determined.
In the doorway stood Evan, their seven-year-old son, clutching a worn stuffed bear he’d insisted on bringing because “babies need something familiar.” His face was wet with tears he hadn’t wiped away, his jaw tight with effort.
Rachel shook her head weakly. “Evan… sweetheart… not right now.”
But Evan stepped forward anyway.
“That’s my brother,” he said, voice growing stronger. “You said I’d meet him. I promised I’d help him.”
The room paused.
Dr. Porter glanced at the NICU nurse, then nodded. “Okay,” she said. “But be gentle.”
Evan climbed carefully onto the chair beside his mother. The nurse adjusted the blanket, then—after a moment—placed the baby into Evan’s arms.
He was impossibly light.