Julian cried.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just one fierce, indignant cry, as if he had strong opinions about the brightness of the world.
Dr. Walsh lifted him for one brief, shining second before the neonatal team checked him.
“He’s here,” she said. “He’s early, but he’s strong.”
My whole body shook.
“Julian,” I whispered.
Adrian covered his mouth with one hand.
Clara wept openly.
When they placed my son against my chest, wrapped in a soft hospital blanket, he quieted almost instantly. His face was red and wrinkled and perfect in a way no photograph could have prepared me for. His tiny hand opened against my skin.
A hand that had survived snow, greed, silence, and every plan made around him without his consent.
“Hello,” I whispered. “I’m your mother.”
His eyes remained closed, but his fingers curled.
Adrian stepped closer, moving as if approaching a sacred place.
