The contractions woke Isabelle at 3:14 AM.Sharp, intense, wrapping around her entire abdomen. She gasped, clutching her stomach, and immediately started timing them on her phone.Five minutes later, another. Just as strong."Ethan!" Her voice came out louder than she intended, panic edging in.His footsteps pounded down the hallway. He burst through her bedroom door, already pulling on a sweatshirt. "How far apart?""Five minutes. Maybe less." Another contraction hit and Isabelle doubled over. "Oh god, it's too early. Thirty-seven weeks, that's just barely—""It's full-term. Dr. Patel said thirty-seven weeks is full-term." Ethan was already grabbing the hospital bags from the closet, his voice calm despite the fear in his eyes. "Can you walk?""I think so."He helped her stand, one arm supporting her weight as they moved toward the stairs. Another contraction hit halfway down. Isabelle stopped, gripping the railing, breathing through the pain."I've got you." Ethan's voice was steady

The labor and delivery nurse got Isabelle settled into room 412."Let's check your progress," she said, snapping on gloves. After a quick exam, she nodded. "Four centimeters dilated. Water broke, contractions every seven minutes. You're definitely in active labor.""How long?" Isabelle asked."First babies? Could be twelve hours, could be twenty-four. Everyone's different." The nurse attached monitors to Isabelle's stomach. "Let's get you comfortable and see how things progress."Ethan took up position in the chair beside her bed. He'd done this before—sort of—during the false labor scare. But this time felt different. Real. Final.The first few hours were manageable.Contractions came and went—uncomfortable but tolerable. Isabelle breathed through them, squeezing Ethan's hand when they peaked. He coached her breathing like they'd practiced in the online class he'd completed last week."In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it. You're doing great."But as evening turned

The recovery room was quieter than the delivery room had been.Softer lighting, comfortable bed, a bassinet on wheels where Thomas slept wrapped in the blue and white hospital blanket. Isabelle lay propped against pillows, exhausted but unable to stop watching their son.Ethan sat in the chair beside her bed, also watching. He hadn't stopped watching since Thomas was born three hours ago. Couldn't look away from the tiny face, the impossibly small hands, the chest rising and falling with each breath."I can't believe he's real," Ethan said for the tenth time."I know." Isabelle shifted, wincing. Everything hurt. "I carried him for nine months and I still can't believe he's here."A nurse knocked and entered. "Ready to learn some basics? Feeding, diaper changes, swaddling?"For the next hour, they received a crash course in newborn care.The nurse showed them how to support Thomas's head, how to check if he was hungry, how to tell a wet diaper from a dirty one. She demonstrated swaddli

One week.Seven days since Thomas was born, and Ethan hadn't left the estate. He kept telling himself he'd move back to his own place once Isabelle was more recovered, once they had a routine established. But every morning, he woke in the guest room and couldn't imagine leaving.Not when Thomas needed him."Good morning, buddy," Ethan said, lifting Thomas from the bassinet at six AM. "Ready for breakfast? Let's go find Mom."He'd started talking to Thomas constantly. Narrating everything—diaper changes, outfit selections, the weather outside the window. The nurses had said babies responded to voices, learned language through constant exposure.But really, Ethan just liked talking to his son.Isabelle was already awake in the master bedroom, pumping. She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back messily."He's hungry," Ethan said, bringing Thomas over."Give me two minutes to finish this."Ethan walked Thomas around the room, bouncing gently. "Mom's making breakfas

Derek barely made it inside his apartment before ripping off his shirt.He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, craning his neck, twisting to see his back. There. Left shoulder blade. The port-wine stain he'd had his entire life. Reddish-purple, roughly the size of a quarter, distinctive and permanent.Identical to the mark on Thomas.Derek pulled out his phone and took a photo of his own birthmark. Then he stared at it, comparing it to the mental image burned into his brain of Thomas's tiny shoulder blade.Same size. Same shape. Same location. Same color.*Hereditary,* the doctor had said. *Sometimes runs in families.*Derek's mother had told him stories about this birthmark. How his grandfather had the same one. How it was a family trait, passed down through generations. A genetic signature.And Thomas had it.Derek sank onto the bathroom floor, phone clutched in his hand.He'd suspected. Had worried. Had spent months researching conception windows and ovulation cycles and probabi