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Graham mashed his lips together, stealing a look at Quaid. My husband was one of the few people Graham was comfortable looking in the eye. It was always brief, but it was an indicator of how close they were.

“Are you going to teach her to play chess?” Graham asked, changing the subject.

“When she’s older. If she wants to learn.”

“Or I could teach her. I’m her cousin.”

“You are.”

Graham nodded. “That’s probably a better idea. I’m far better at chess than you.”

Abraham smothered a smile .

Quaid sneered playfully. “And this from the genius who only placed second at the last chess competition.”

Graham’s forehead gathered into creases. “I errored.”

“And he was competing against high school kids. Cut him some slack,” Abraham said to his son.

“Can we go back to admiring my daughter?” Quaid’s affronted tone was all in fun.

Graham admired the baby, shrugged, then sat back, using what I suspected was Chris’s phone, and opened a gaming app. “Juniper isn’t interesting right now. We’ll talk in a couple of years.”

Quaid gaped.

I chuckled and mussed Graham’s hair. He ignored me but shuffled over on the couch so I could sit on my father-in-law’s other side.

***

The following day, after filling out and filing a mountain of paperwork, sharing our joy with Bryn, thanking her for the hundredth time for all she’d done for us, and having baby Juniper assessed by a doctor, we were ready to leave the hospital.

Bringing a baby home for the first time was a terrifying experience, and my anxiety seemed as high as Quaid’s.

My husband fussed, choosing the perfect going-home outfit, ensuring the car seat was adjusted and readjusted to the manufacturer’s specifications and that Juniper was locked in correctly.

Then, he questioned the nurse about absolutely everything under the sun, from jaundice to feeding to colic to bathing and possible allergic reactions she might experience and how we could recognize them.

He’d read every book, so he knew the answers already, but Quaid wouldn’t be Quaid if he left without worries.

By midafternoon, we were ready to go.

We stopped by Bryn’s room to say goodbye. She was being discharged as well, and her brother and Iggy were present. I expected the separation would be hard for her, but she’d assured us a hundred times that it was a good heartache, and they were happy tears.

“Send me pictures,” she said with a wistful smile, staring down at a sleeping Juniper tucked into her car seat.

“We will.”

She took the sleeping baby’s hand and gave it a small shake. “It was an honor to carry you for nine months. Thank you for keeping me company. You have the best daddies in the world. Take care of them because I know they’ll take great care of you.”

She bent, still visibly sore from delivery, and kissed her softly on her cap-covered head.

We took turns hugging Bryn. Quaid dissolved into tears, clinging longer and promising to keep her updated on Juniper’s life.

Then, it was time to go home.

Quaid was too anxious to drive and insisted on sitting in the back seat with our daughter. We met gazes in the rearview mirror more than once on the journey and shared smiles.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Yes.”

Edwards had contacted Quaid that morning, offering well wishes and requesting a meeting once he had settled at home.

Costa, Torin, and Jordyn had called with congratulations as well but hadn’t been able to visit since wrapping up a case of this magnitude took a tremendous effort.

Especially a case with a tragic ending. They promised to swing by in the coming days once things calmed down .

I parked in the driveway, and Quaid collected the car seat, carrying Juniper to the house. We walked out the door the previous day as a couple. As two. We returned as a family. As three.

“I wonder what Oscar will think,” Quaid said as I unlocked the door.

“We’ll soon find out.”

The cat waited beyond the threshold, always ready to greet us when we got home.

Oscar was curious about the bundle of smells Quaid sat on the ground, but after a few quizzical sniffs, he backed away, seemingly unimpressed, and strutted off toward the living room and his cat tree, where he curled up, facing away from us, and slept.

“Are we being snubbed?” Quaid asked, unlatching the car seat straps and transferring Juniper into his arms again. He’d hardly been able to put her down since she was born.

“Definitely. He’ll get over it.”

We stood in the front hallway and stared at one another. I cupped Quaid’s cheek, stroking the stubble along his jaw. “How does it feel, Daddy?”

“Good. So good.” He couldn’t stop smiling. “I can’t believe this isn’t a dream.”

I kissed him. “It’s real.”

Juniper fussed, and Quaid rocked and bounced her automatically, a frown cutting a V between his brows. “Do you think she’s hungry? I still can’t tell what all her noises mean.”

“Maybe. It’s been a couple of hours. Why don’t I make a bottle, and we can see if she wants it.”

“No. I’ll do it. Making formula is very specific.” He passed Juniper to me, kissing her head, and informed me he was going to figure out the bottle thing and would teach me the science behind it another day .

I chuckled and let him go without arguing or pointing out that I’d made bottles before and wasn’t inept. This was Quaid, and his comfort depended on control.

Alone in the hall, I stared down at my new daughter as she scrunched her face and squinted up at me with her dark brown eyes, tiny squeaks leaving her parted lips.

“Hey, beautiful. Welcome home.”

Her limbs flailed of their own accord since she still had little control. I offered her my finger, and she clung. “How about a tour of your new home?”

We stopped momentarily in the kitchen to kiss Daddy as he learned the art of making bottles. He cooed over his daughter and then shooed us away lest we disrupt the process or he make a mistake.

I showed Juniper the nursery that we’d spent months preparing and turned on the mobile so we could dance. She calmed as I gently swayed with her in my arms, humming the tune and inventing my own lyrics.

We sat in the rocking chair to read her one of the many board books in her collection, most educational since Quaid had picked them out and was convinced our baby would be a genius.

Juniper fussed, not interested in the story.

The fussing turned to crying, and she did all she could to locate her thumb or fingers to suck, turning her head this way and that as her lips searched and sucked the air.

I helped her, and the moment she had a knuckle, she contented herself, slurping and slobbering as I headed back downstairs.

“She’s definitely hungry. How’s the bottle coming?”

“Almost ready.” He tested it on his forearm, frowning. “Put your wrist out. Does this feel too hot?”

He dripped a few drops on my skin. “It’s perfect.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Quaid. Trust yourself. ”

“I don’t want to hurt her.”

“You won’t.”

We sat on the couch, Juniper nestled in my arms for feeding time, my worrisome husband armed with a burp blanket to catch spit up should it happen. Quaid continuously stroked her mess of dark hair as she contentedly sucked down every ounce in the bottle.

“I think she’s got Doyle genes,” he observed.

“I think you’re right.” I had noticed at the hospital, and my mother had pointed out more than once how she looked like Kylee had when she was born. Amelia had simply smiled. “Are you disappointed that she’s not fair-haired and blue-eyed?”

“Not at all. She’s still my daughter. DNA changes nothing.”

Quaid leaned against my side, and we watched Juniper eat, marveling at the life we’d brought into the world.

After her feeding, Quaid encouraged a burp and changed her diaper.

The three of us lay together on the couch, having more kangaroo time.

Skin to skin, heart to heart, and love in abundance.

At some point, we would need to introduce her to the crib we’d bought, but that night, she slept in our arms, neither of us ready to let her go.