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AMELIA

The soft glow of the nursery lamp casts gentle shadows across the room as I shift Eleanor to my other breast, wincing at the sharp pain that shoots through me.

Three days at home with our newborn, and breastfeeding still feels like an impossible challenge.

The lactation consultant who visited yesterday assured me this was normal, that it would get easier, but right now, with my nipples cracked and sore and Eleanor fussing against me, I’m finding it hard to believe.

“Come on, sweet girl,” I whisper, trying to help her latch properly. “I know you’re hungry.”

Eleanor turns her head away, her little face scrunching up in frustration before releasing a cry that seems impossibly loud for someone so tiny. Tears of frustration prick at my own eyes as I try once more to position her correctly.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, though I’m not sure if I’m talking to her or myself. “We’ll figure this out.”

The door opens quietly, and Tristan appears, his hair rumpled from the brief nap he’d been trying to catch between Eleanor’s feedings. The circles under his eyes match mine, but the love in his gaze as he takes in the sight of us hasn’t dimmed at all.

“How’s it going?” he asks, crossing the room to perch on the arm of the rocking chair.

“Not great,” I admit, my voice catching. “She won’t latch properly, and it hurts so much, Tristan.”

He reaches down to stroke Eleanor’s cheek with his knuckle. “Maybe we could try the shield thing the consultant left?”

I nod, feeling a tear escape despite my best efforts. “It’s in the basket by the changing table.”

Tristan retrieves it and hands it to me, then kneels beside the chair as I position it and try again with Eleanor. This time, after a moment of resistance, she latches, and though it still hurts, it’s bearable.

“There we go,” Tristan says softly, his hand coming to rest on my knee. “You’ve got it, Lia.”

I let out a shaky breath, relief washing over me as Eleanor began to suckle properly. “I thought this would be more…instinctive,” I confess. “That I’d just know how to be a mother.”

“Hey.” Tristan’s voice is gentle but firm. “You are an amazing mother. It’s been three days, and you’re recovering from giving birth while learning how to care for a tiny human. Give yourself some grace.”

I lean my head against his arm, drawing strength from his presence. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise. It’s part of my kingly charm,” he says with a grin, and I can’t help but smile back. “Speaking of kingly duties, I have that security council meeting in an hour.”

My smile falters. “I forgot about that.”

“I can cancel?—”

“No,” I cut him off. “You’ve already rescheduled twice. The country still needs its king.”

Tristan sighs, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I hate leaving you both.”

“It’s just for a few hours,” I remind him, though I’m dreading being alone with Eleanor, afraid I won’t be able to comfort her if she fusses. “We’ll be fine.”

He studies my face for a moment, then nods. “I’ll have Shannon check in on you, and I’ll be back as soon as humanly possible.”

“Try not to fall asleep during the meeting,” I tease, remembering how he nodded off during a budget review in the final weeks of my pregnancy.

“No promises,” he replies with a wink. “The Minister of Finance has a voice like a lullaby, and I’m working on about two hours of sleep.”

As if on cue, he yawns widely, and I laugh despite my exhaustion. “Go get ready. Your country needs you conscious.”

Tristan stands but lingers, watching as Eleanor continues to nurse. The look of pure adoration on his face makes my heart swell. “I still can’t believe we made her,” he whispers.

“I know,” I agree, glancing down at our daughter’s perfect little face, her dark eyelashes fanned against her cheeks. “She’s the best of both of us.”

He leans down to press a kiss to my forehead, then one to Eleanor’s head. “I won’t be long, I promise. If you need anything?—”

“I’ll call,” I assure him. “Now go, before you’re late and the prime minister sends a search party.”

With visible reluctance, Tristan backs away toward the door. “I love you both,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

“We love you too,” I reply, and the smile that spreads across his face is worth every moment of discomfort and uncertainty I’ve felt.

After he leaves, I finish feeding Eleanor, successfully burping her on my shoulder—a small victory that fills me with disproportionate pride. She’s drowsy now, her tiny body heavy with milk and contentment. I carry her to the crib but find myself unwilling to put her down just yet.

Instead, I settle back into the rocking chair, cradling her against my chest as I breathe in her sweet newborn scent.

Outside the tall windows, the sun is setting over the palace gardens, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.

In this moment, despite the exhaustion and the uncertainty, I feel a profound sense of rightness.

“Your daddy will move mountains for you,” I whisper to Eleanor as her eyes flutter closed. “And so will I. You’ll never doubt how loved you are, little one. Not for a single moment.”

As Eleanor sleeps in my arms, I allow my own eyes to close, just for a moment. The weight of her against my heart is the most perfect anchor I’ve ever known, keeping me tethered to what truly matters in this life we’ve built together.