She doesn't look at me, just keeps working. "It's my job."
Right. Her job. Professional. That's what this is.
I check on Harper one more time before bed. She's sleeping peacefully, her tiny chest rising and falling in the dark. I stand there longer than I need to, one hand on the crib rail, throat tight in a way I didn't expect. Four days ago, I didn't know she existed. Now the idea of anything happening to her makes me want to put myself between her and the entire world.
My daughter.Mine. I pull the door mostly closed and stand in the hallway for a second, just breathing.
The paternity test will confirm it next week, but I already know. She's mine, and I'm not letting anyone take her away.
Not Jessica. Not anyone.
Because she's mine, and that's all that matters.
8
NORA
The coffee maker beeps, and I begin pouring my first cup. Harper slept in four-hour stretches last night, the longest she’s managed, and I woke up this morning feeling almost human again.
Almost.
The coffee is still the thing standing between me and being fully functional.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Email notification. Subject line:
Paternity Test Results, Harper Rose West.
I set the mug down.
Tyler added me to his account last week, so I'd see medical appointments and anything else that shouldn't wait once training camp starts. I knew this email was coming, but I still feel it when I see it.
I open it. Skim past the official language.
Probability of Paternity: 99.9%
She'shis. Officially, legally, scientifically, his.
I'm still holding the phone when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Tyler comes in with Harper against his shoulder, both of them rumpled from sleep. His hair is doing several things at once. His hold on her is confident, head supported, body settled, nothing like that first day.
"Morning," he says. "She's been awake for a while. We've been in the nursery discussing things."
I hold out my phone without speaking.
He transfers Harper to his other arm and takes it. I watch him read it once, then again. His hands start to shake on the second pass.
"Ninety-nine point nine percent," he says, quietly.
"As certain as these tests get."
He reads it a third time, and I don't look away. I watch the emotions cross his face, the way weather crosses an open field: relief, fear, joy, and terror, all of it visible, none of it performed. He's not managing it. He's just feeling it.
"I knew," he says finally. Harper has a fistful of his shirt. "I knew she was mine. But seeing it like this?—"
"Different," I say.
"Yeah."