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In the end, the nurse smiled and spoke to the baby. “Let me clean you up while your daddies decide who will hold you first. Shirts off, gentlemen.”

Quaid had read me something called kangaroo care.

It was a form of encouraging initial bonding between newborns and fathers.

It boasted the importance of skin-to-skin contact in the first minutes and hours of life.

So, while our baby girl was weighed, measured, and cleaned, I helped Quaid remove his shirt and settle him in the recliner Bryn had used during labor.

The nurse brought the baby over, unwrapped, wailing, tiny limbs flailing, and wearing only a knitted pink hat. She lay her on Quaid’s chest before draping a warmed blanket over them. The baby quieted instantly, squirming and squeaking as she took in her environment with squinty eyes.

“Hey, princess,” Quaid said, his voice soft and thick with emotion. “Welcome to the world. I’m your daddy.”

The nurse nudged me. “Are you Papa then?”

“I am.” I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the spectacle. My heart wanted to burst with joy watching the man I loved experience something he’d wanted his whole life. He held our daughter like she was the single greatest thing in the universe.

And she was.

My knees wanted to give out with the profundity of emotions taking me over.

“Shirt off then,” the nurse said. “The chair’s plenty big enough for both of you.”

Stripped from my shirt, I squeezed onto the recliner beside Quaid as our new daughter peered confusedly into my husband’s face for the first time. Did she recognize his voice? Did she know who he was? She puckered her rosy lips, blowing spit bubbles.

I peeked under her hat at the mess of dark hair. It matched her deep brown eyes. Tracing a finger along her chubby cheek, I admired every part of her, this miracle, this gift.

“She’s beautiful,” I whispered.

“She is.” Quaid broke down and cried.

I didn’t know for how long we stayed like that, the three of us together in the chair, skin to skin, heart to heart, getting to know one another with soft conversation.

The nurse brought us an introductory bottle of formula to feed her, barely a few ounces, and instructed Quaid through the process .

It took the baby a while to figure out how to suck, but eventually, she figured it out, and the nurse seemed satisfied. “Does she have a name yet?” she asked.

I glanced at Quaid, who looked at me with anticipation. Since the nurse hovered, waiting for an answer, I asked her to give us a second.

“No problem. Take your time.” She checked on Bryn, who was involved in aftercare with a second nurse. Someone had found Arden, so she wasn’t alone.

“So?” Quaid peered at our daughter, stroking her cheek and touching her fragile fingers. When she grasped his pinky, more tears rolled down his cheek and spilled over his smiling lips. “You’re supposed to name her since she’s a girl. Are we calling her Moonbeam?”

I chuckled. “No, Quaid. It was a joke.” I brushed the backs of my fingers over our daughter’s silken cheek, unable to stop touching her. “I had a better idea, but I wanted to hold off and be sure she was a girl before broaching it.”

“What?”

I dug deep for the strength to present the name I’d chosen, unsure how Quaid might feel, fearing it might be too painful, even now. “I think we should call her Juniper.”

Quaid didn’t respond and continued to peer into our little girl’s face.

Fresh tears welled in his eyes, clinging precariously to his lashes.

The baby looked quizzically back at him.

I could see Quaid doing all he could to hold himself together.

Twice, he opened his mouth to respond and closed it again, clenching his jaw.

When a single tear fell free and rolled down his cheek, I caught it and wiped it away, kissing where it landed. “We don’t have to. I understand if it’s too much. It was just a suggestion.”

“I… We should ask my dad first. ”

“I already did. He said he would be honored if we wanted to do that.”

I didn’t tell him that Abraham had gotten choked up.

I didn’t tell him how his father had needed to excuse himself for a solid ten minutes to pull himself together in the bathroom.

I didn’t tell him how none of that had mattered because he’d cried in front of me anyhow as he hugged me with trembling arms and said yes.

Quaid lowered his face and kissed our daughter’s head. “Juniper. I think I’d like that.”

He sobbed again, burying his face in my shoulder as we held our daughter.

Time passed at an immeasurable pace. The nurse performed another examination of baby Juniper before swaddling her properly in a pink blanket. Bryn held her for a while, telling the baby thank you for being part of her life.

Again, Quaid cried.

Bryn was taken to the maternity floor to recover, and it was time to introduce baby Juniper to the family.

The following day, we would sign the official paperwork and bring her home.

Although we’d taken turns holding her over the past hour, Quaid had a hard time letting her go, so it was he who carried her down the hall to the waiting room for the official introduction. I walked beside him, unable to take my eyes off our daughter, who slept in his arms.

“She’s tired,” he said.

“You would be too if you’d fought to be born.”

He smiled. “True.”

My mother’s voice traveled, and chatter filled the waiting room. News of the baby’s birth had arrived long before us, and I heard the voices of my brother-in-law, niece, and nephew as well. Amelia must have called them and told them to come.

Upon our arrival, a hush fell over the room as everyone glanced at us in the doorway. Smiles and joy radiated from every face. My four-and-a-half-year-old niece jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “It’s here! The baby is here, and it’s a pink one! Mommy, Uncle Azzie had a baby girl.”

I chuckled at her enthusiasm and wrapped an arm around Quaid, pulling him against my side.

“You are correct, Kylee. Uncle Azzie and Uncle Quaid had a baby girl. May we introduce Juniper Cellina-Marie Valor-Doyle.” It was a mouthful, and she would likely hate us for the abundance of hyphenations when she got older, but we’d suffer her ire with smiles.

The room exploded with excited chatter and congratulations. Hearing the middle name, my mother swooned as she clutched her chest. “Oh, Ronan. Did you hear that? Did you hear that, Amelia? Cellina-Marie, after her grandmother. After me. Oh, she has my name.”

“Juniper, after Quaid’s sister, Ma,” Amelia pointed out.

My mother covered her mouth, glassy eyes widening. “Oh, how darling. How precious. Ronan, did you hear that?”

“I heard.”

“Juniper. After Quaid’s sister.”

“I said I heard.”

“Isn’t it darling?”

“It’s darling.”

We were quickly surrounded, everyone wanting to see the baby. My parents. My sister and her family. Allison and her daughter, who offered me a hug and whispered that Torin sends his congratulations too and is supremely pissed he couldn’t be here .

The only people who remained seated were Quaid’s father—he wasn’t about to battle for space when his bum knee gave him so much trouble—and Graham, who had deposited himself beside Abraham and seemed less interested in the baby and more interested in discussing chess.

Like always, Abraham indulged him. He’d told me once that something in Graham reminded him of Quaid as a child.

Old souls trapped in young bodies. Their seriousness, focus, and tight control were the same.

Graham didn’t come across as a typical nine-year-old, but he wasn’t a typical nine-year-old, and Quaid had left childhood behind on the day his sister had vanished, forcing him to grow up long before he was ready.

Amelia stole baby Juniper from Quaid’s arms and cradled her like a pro, turning to her husband. “I want another baby.”

Chris almost choked on his spit. “Yeah, we’ll talk about that later.” When Amelia turned to show her mother the baby, Chris met my gaze and shook his head, eyes bulging as he mouthed, No fucking way .

My mother cooed at the bundle of pink in my sister’s arms while my dad looked on, seeming pleased as punch.

Kylee bounced up and down, demanding to be allowed to hold her.

When Quaid stiffened, instantly losing three shades of color, I found his hand before he could snatch our daughter back and run away.

Mom took the baby as Amelia heaved Kylee into her arms and showed her what she was missing, telling her not to touch her face. They admired her beauty, lifted her hat, and awed at her dark hair.

My sister met my eyes, and I could read her mind. She saw it, too. Juniper was a Doyle through and through.

Chris offered a hand, and we shook as he congratulated us. Juniper was smothered in love by my side of the family, passed from one person to the next. After so long, Quaid retrieved his daughter, taking her over to his dad. He sat beside him on the narrow couch and offered her to him.

Abraham took her with the ease and gentleness of a man who had practiced holding babies a thousand times. He held his first granddaughter with tears in his eyes, choking out, “Hello, Juniper. Don’t you have a beautiful name.”

Quaid leaned against his dad, and the pair cried silent tears as they absorbed this new breath of life.

Graham, seeming intrigued for the first time, leaned over and examined the baby, lips pursed as his fingers danced along his pant legs.

At nearly ten, his awareness had grown. He was no longer as centrally focused as he’d once been.

He still had tics and viewed the world through a different lens than others, but he had matured in the years he’d known Quaid, and the two had developed a unique relationship.

“Did you know it’s a Jewish tradition to name children after beloved relatives who have died? It’s a way of honoring the deceased and memorializing them. Are you Jewish?”

“No, but I think many cultures do that,” Quaid said.