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LU

A nsel was disappointed that we didn’t want a huge audience for the hatching of our chick. But after everything that’s happened, I think our family needs to share this moment alone.

On a lazy Saturday morning when Sam and I are cuddling with the egg in bed, the pecking starts. It’s such a little sound. If we weren’t quiet, we might miss it.

Sam kisses me. “It’s time.”

Everything happens slowly. Sam rounding up the kids. Getting them all to do a family shift. Moving them onto the bed when they’re in their animal forms. Mary is absolutely delighted that she’s bigger than her siblings. She grabs Morgan and rolls onto her back, while they squawk and beat their fuzzy wings in protest.

Poor Liam still has an unfortunate patch of fluff on his chest he hasn’t lost yet, despite the smooth feathers on the rest of his body. Being thirteen is awkward, regardless of what form you’re in.

Parker waddles over to Sam, who is barely larger than Mary in his penguin form. Parker tucks their beak into Sam’s feathers, snuggling close.

Penguin shifters really do like to cuddle.

I scoop Mary into my arms to give Morgan a break. She wriggles around, trying to get back to her siblings when the first crack happens. The egg rolls onto its side and pops open, revealing white feathers.

That’s strange. All of the pictures I’ve looked at of newly hatched penguins have had black feathers.

Mary stops struggling, and we all watch transfixed as Robin struggles in their shell. They eventually kick off the bottom. Their lower feathers are white too, and they have black feet.

Polar bears have black skin.

They roll onto their feet and try to move forward with the upper half of their shell still on. Sam walks forward and lifts the shell with his beak until it slides off.

Robin is completely white, with the exception of their black beak, eyes, and feet. I pick them up gently with my other paw and bring them to my chest. Mary stares at them curiously, then licks at their head. Mary’s tongue pushes back Robin’s feathers to reveal what looks like a brand on Robin’s head.

It’s the same symbol that Tana, Cy’s cub, has on her forehead: fire.

When Cy sent me the picture of Tana, that insignia terrified me. It has to mean something.

Parker, Morgan, and Liam all waddle across the bed to see their new sibling. I hold Robin out to see their family. Sam joins the kids, inspecting Robin with his beak.

I relax. Maybe that insignia means something. Maybe it doesn’t. For now, Robin is just a newly hatched chick with a family who loves them.

Sam carefully rolls Robin onto the bedspread and waddles forward until Robin is underneath him. He puffs out his chest proudly. He’s claiming our child with his head held high.

This moment is so perfect, I never dared to wish for it. I never could imagine feeling this intense sense of belonging in a room of people I love.

Sometimes real life is better than a wish.