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It’s true. We took Mookie when Jameson was drafted because he had a thing for Jaxon’s pillow and it was clear they had some kind of emotional bond. We’ve kept Mookie alive. Mookie might say otherwise if he could talk. And there was that one time we didn’t give him treats and he went outside and refused to come in until his bowl was filled.
The nurse steps aside to let us have our moment, but there’s a commotion in the hallway—Fork Guy, having convinced a janitor he’s “family,” pops his head around the door. “Did I missit? Is he out?” He’s holding a bouquet of plastic forks tied with a Braves lanyard. “Did you name him after me?”
The nurse blocks him with surprising athleticism. “Sir, please stay outside?—”
Fork Guy leans in, whispering loudly, “Name him after me! Or at least let me pick his middle name! I have a list!”
Jaxon laughs, shaking his head. “We’ll call you later when we’re ready for visitors.”
“I brought celebratory pudding cups! And I can teach him how to eat ramen upside down!”
The nurse pushes him back into the hallway. “Sir, do I need to get security?”
He winks at Maverick. “Welcome to the squad, little dude! May your chakras always be aligned!”
The door closes. It’s the three of us—me, Jaxon, and Maverick—swaddled in this perfect, ridiculous, overwhelming love.
I hand Maverick to Jaxon for the first time. He holds him like he’s holding the final out of the World Series, so careful and awestruck.
“Hey, Mav,” Jaxon whispers, “it’s us. Your mom’s a legend, and I’m basically the freaking goat at baseball.”
I snort, exhausted and happy.
Out in the hallway, Fork Guy starts singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” again, this time with what sounds like a janitor on harmonica.
Maverick yawns, scrunches his face, and right then I know this is our forever lineup. I’ve never felt so much love in my life and I only just met him. I never thought something so beautiful could exist. Yes, it’s probably the hormones talking, and in a few weeks, sleep-deprived and raging with even more hormones, I might think differently.
For now, I’m staying in this moment and letting it wash over me.
The stadium lights outside are long gone, traded for the sterile hush of the hospital and the quiet miracle cradled in my arms. For so long, being with Jaxon felt like living on borrowed time because I didn’t know how he felt about me. I used to lie awake, wondering if I was just a chapter in his story, or if I was actually part of the whole book. But holding Maverick, warm and impossibly small against my chest, something inside me finally settles. Jaxon’s hand finds mine, steady and certain, and I know without a doubt: this is it.
This is where I belong. Not in the background of his highlight reel, but right here—messy, beautiful, and real. I spent so long questioning my place in his life, but the truth is, I was always meant to be here, with Jaxon and Maverick.
The hospital roomdims to a soft glow. Jaxon sits in the creaky recliner, Maverick curled against his chest, and I swear he looks more nervous now than he did in the delivery room. He keeps checking to make sure the baby’s breathing, like Maverick’s going to disappear if he blinks.
“Should he be making that noise?” Jaxon whispers, staring at our son’s scrunched-up, grimacing face.
“It’s called breathing,” I whisper back. “You’re doing great, Dad.”
Before he can answer, there’s a gentle knock, then the door swings open wide enough for Fork Guy to slip in, balancing atray of pudding cups and—god help us—a diaper bag he’s labeled “Maverick’s First Shit Kit.” He’s even stuck a Braves sticker on it.
“I come bearing snacks and essential gear,” Fork Guy announces, tiptoeing like he’s sneaking into a bank vault instead of a hospital room. “Also, I bribed the night nurse with a Snickers.”
Jaxon tries to shoo him away, but I wave Fork Guy over. Honestly, I could use the entertainment.
Maverick picks that moment to unleash a tiny, but somehow catastrophic, diaper blowout.
Jaxon freezes, eyes wide and attempts to hand him back to me. “Cam?—”
“Nope.” I stifle a laugh. “It’s your turn. Fork Guy, help him.”
Fork Guy’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas. “Diaper-changing is a team sport. I’ll talk you through it. Step one: don’t puke on your own kid.”
Jaxon lays Maverick on the bassinet, hands shaking, and Fork Guy assumes the role of official diaper-change commentator. “Alright, remove the old diaper, careful—don’t let the poop get on your hands.”
Jaxon peels the diaper off and shakes his head, as if he regrets this decision already. “Jesus Christ, how does something so small do this?”
“I have four younger brothers. It’s normal.” Fork Guy grins and I think to myself, in the years I’ve knowing this dude, I never knew he had younger brothers. “It’s a rookie move to underestimate the power of a baby. Now, wipes. Plenty of wipes. Imagine you’re cleaning up after a chili cook-off gone wrong.”