Page 134 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

And then she was here. Loud. Red.Perfect.

Clara placed her gently in my arms, and Webb made a sound like his soul had been kicked through his chest. He sat behind me in the water, arms wrapped around mine, both of us staring down at the tiny human who’d just rocked our world sideways.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Hi there, little girl.”

“She’s ours,” I croaked softly. “Webb, she’s really ours.”

We stayed like that for a long time, skin to skin, hearts in our throats, until Clara gently started doing her checks. Webb looked like he wanted to bubble-wrap the whole room.

“Is she okay? Is she breathing? Is that normal? Should her head look like that?”

“She’s perfect,” Clara assured him.

And then came the knock, this time on the bathroom door.

“I made cupcakes,” Marcus called. “They’re baby themed.”

“Swear to God,” Webb muttered, rubbing his face. “I’m changing the locks tomorrow.”

I looked down at our daughter, who blinked sleepily up at me. “Welcome to the circus, sweetheart.”

Webb

I’d held things before, but I’d never held anything like her.

She was so small. Warm and wriggling in a way that made my chest ache. Her skin was a little wrinkled, a little red, and her nose was mine. She had this deep little crease between her brows already, like she was preparing to be unimpressed with the world—another gift from me, probably.

I couldn’t stop staring.

I hadn’t expected her to look so much like me. Gabby had done all the work, and yet, somehow, this tiny creature had come out looking like I’d photocopied my own face and shrunk it down to baby size.

My throat felt too tight for words. It was like someone had pulled everything I was into a single thread and stitched it into this girl’s bones.

“Webb, you can turn around now,” Gabby called softly.

I blinked and glanced over my shoulder. Gabby and Clara had finished whatever medical, sacred, mysterious ritual they’d made me turn away for—something about "placental integrity" and "not traumatizing the dad."

Gabby was being helped out of the birthing tub, her skin still flushed and glowing in that post-apocalyptic-miracle way thatonly women can manage after bringing life into the world. She looked exhausted, gorgeous, and stronger than I’d ever thought it was possible to be.

“Can I lie down before I shower?” she asked, leaning on Clara for support.

“Absolutely,” the doula said gently, guiding her toward the bedroom.

I followed, still cradling our daughter in my arms like she might vanish if I didn’t hold her just right. Once Gabby was tucked into bed, I climbed in beside her and settled our baby between us.

We didn’t talk for a moment. Just lay there, staring down at the girl who’d made everything bigger and quieter and louder and heavier and lighter—all at once.

Gabby reached over and brushed her fingers along my arm. That quiet little touch between us said more than anything either of us could manage right now.

After a while, she whispered, “So, have you decided on a name?”

I let out a breath and shook my head slowly, eyes never leaving the baby.

“I’ve got a million names still floating around in my head. I need a minute to narrow it down now that I’ve seen her and know what she looks like.”

Gabby smiled softly. “Okay.”

We just lay there, watching her sleep, her fingers flexing every so often like she was grabbing onto invisible dreams.

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