And now we’re going to meet our baby.
Tate
Phoebe was born on the fourteenth of March with a shock of wispy, soft dark hair on her head and what looks like my blue eyes. Summer grossly underestimated how long it would take for her to be born. From the time we got out of the shower, got dressed, put a few last-minute things in the mostly packed hospital bags, got the pies out of the oven and left the house, it was less than three hours. By seven o’clock we were eating dinner in her hospital room, the baby sleeping peacefully beside us.
Summer was a trooper, pushing her out without meds. I’m not squeamish with medical stuff, blood and guts don’t bother me, but it was tough seeing the woman I love in so much pain.
But it’s over now, and she’s eating like a woman who just ran a marathon or something.
“You should go home tonight,” she says for the tenth time.
We’ve been arguing about this for the last hour. I don’t want to leave them, but she thinks I need to sleep on our bed and get a good night’s rest.
“I don’t want to leave you,” I reiterate.
“We’re going to sleep. I already told them not to wake me overnight for the first night. I need time to recover, and so do you, because nobody is getting any sleep once we take her home.”
I grunt. “Not leaving.”
“Fine. Stay. Sleep on that stupid little cot. But don’t whine when it’s your turn to get up at three in the morning because you haven’t slept through the night in weeks.”
“Deal.”
She shakes her head. “Have I told you how sweet you are?”
“No, but I’m listening.”
She laughs.
“Excuse me—you have more flowers.” A nurse comes in carrying a huge bouquet of pink roses. I already have one from Dolly and the gang at the diner, and another from Erik and Casey—I don’t even know how they found out she was born, but I figure Tate told Sasha and the band.
“Who’s it from?” she asks me.
I hand her the card and she opens it.
“It’s from the band,” she says softly. “Angus and Ryleigh, Mick and Taryn, Sam and Kirsten, Jonny, and Sasha.”
“Hellooo…” Dolly comes breezing in carrying a massive gift bag.
“Hey!” Summer reaches for her and they hug.
“How’re you feeling, sweetie?” she asks, gazing down at her.
“I’m great. Come meet Phoebe.”
“Awww, look at her. Looks just like her daddy.”
“Didn’t you already spoil me rotten at my shower?” Summer demands as Dolly puts the bag down.
We had a shower at the diner, and Sasha and the band even flew out to attend. It was a lot of fun—and we got so many gifts it was mind-boggling. Luckily, some of the things are for when the baby’s a little older so they took it all back to Minnesota with them. At least a suitcase’s worth, which is that much less we have to move when the time comes.
“This is something for you. From your mom.”
Summer pauses. “What?”
Dolly perches on the edge of the bed. “When she was first diagnosed, she knew she probably wouldn’t be here, at least not mentally, to enjoy all these moments with you. So she wrote you letters and asked me to give them to you. I didn’t give you the first one, the one for your wedding day because things seemed so up in the air with Tate, but now I figure you need that one and the one that’s for the day you give birth to your first child.”
Tears puddle in Summer’s eyes as she pulls out a framed photo of her mother—holding her on what’s probably the day she was born.
