The first time I saw the twins outside my body, they didn’t look like the chubby babies in diaper commercials. They looked like promises that hadn’t finished becoming real.
Two tiny bundles in two clear bassinets, skin translucent under hospital lights, their chests fluttering like hummingbird wings beneath wires and tape. The NICU nurse spoke gently—oxygen, monitors, feeding tubes—like she was explaining the weather. Like it wasn’t my whole world.
I stood there in a hospital gown that never quite closed in the back, hair in a knot, hands shaking so hard I had to press my palms into my thighs just to keep from reaching into the incubators and scooping them up like I could rewrite biology with love.
“Mom,” Harper whispered beside me, voice rough from a week of bad sleep and worse coffee. “You did it.”
Did it. Like I’d finished a marathon.
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to scream Dylan’s name down the hallway until the walls cracked.
Because Dylan Monroe had been my husband, once. The man who brought peonies and called me his artist. The man who swore our home was safe.
And now, on the day I was finally being discharged—empty-armed, stitched up, still bleeding and leaking and aching—I was walking out of the maternity ward alone with nothing but a folder of instructions and my purse.
That’s what they don’t tell you: sometimes you leave the maternity ward without a baby in your arms. Sometimes you leave with your heart still in the building, behind locked doors and hand sanitizer and alarms that scream if you walk too close.
I pushed through the double doors into the hallway, bracing myself for the cold air, for the emptiness.
And then I froze.
Because someone was waiting for me.
Someone who had absolutely no right to be there.
—————————————————————————
1
The waiting area outside Labor & Delivery smelled like burnt coffee and floor cleaner. The chairs were the kind that looked like they’d been designed to discourage lingering—hard, plastic, a crime against the human spine.
Harper walked half a step ahead of me like a bouncer, scanning the room with her chin lifted, jaw set. My mom was behind me, one hand hovering near my elbow as if I might collapse at any second. Which wasn’t an irrational fear. I felt like a paper cup that had been crushed and then smoothed out again, never quite the same shape.
There were balloons tied to chair arms. A guy in a hoodie asleep with his mouth open. A couple holding hands, whispering, the woman’s face lit with that stunned, glossy happiness of new parenthood.
And there, standing near the vending machines, like he belonged in the soft glow of family joy—
Barbara Monroe.
Dylan’s mother.
She was dressed like she was going to a board meeting: camel coat, pearl earrings, hair in a sleek, silver-blonde bob that never dared to move out of place. Her lipstick was perfect. Her eyes were not.
They were sharp. Waiting.
My throat tightened so suddenly I tasted metal.
Harper stopped so abruptly her sneaker squeaked on the tile. “Oh, hell no,” she said under her breath.
My mom stiffened. “Tessa,” she murmured, warning in her voice.
Barbara turned as if she’d heard us on a private frequency.
“Tessa,” she said, and her smile tried to wear warmth like a disguise. “There you are.”
Every instinct in me screamed to pivot and walk back through the double doors and lock myself in the NICU with my sons. But exhaustion pinned me in place. Pain anchored me to the floor.
“What are you doing here?” Harper snapped before I could.
Barbara’s gaze flicked to Harper like she was a stain on a tablecloth. “I’m here to support my family,” she said smoothly.
“You mean to control it,” Harper shot back.
Barbara didn’t blink. She looked past Harper to me, like the conversation was a minor inconvenience. “How are the boys?”
The boys. Like she had the right to say those words. Like she hadn’t stood in my kitchen weeks ago with a teacup and a quiet, poisonous voice telling me Dylan wanted one baby, not two.
My hands curled around the strap of my purse until my knuckles burned. “They’re in the NICU,” I said, voice low. “Alive.”
Barbara’s expression tightened for a fraction of a second—something like irritation, as if my sons’ fragile survival was a scheduling issue.
“Good,” she said. “Good. That’s what matters.”
My mom stepped forward. “What do you want, Barbara?”
Barbara finally looked at my mother, and the air between them chilled. “I want to speak with Tessa. Privately.”
Harper laughed, a short, humorless sound. “Absolutely not.”
Barbara’s nostrils flared. “This concerns the children.”
“It concerns you,” Harper said. “And whatever scheme you’re cooking up because your precious son can’t handle the consequences of his own life.”
Barbara’s eyes flashed. “Watch your tone.”
Harper leaned in. “Make me.”
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my heartbeat from punching its way out of my chest. Every monitor beep from the NICU still echoed in my skull. I couldn’t do a screaming match in a hospital lobby. Not today.
I stepped forward, surprising myself with the steadiness of my movement. “Say it,” I told Barbara. “Whatever you came to say—say it here.”
Barbara’s mouth tightened, and for the first time she looked… uncertain. Like she’d expected to find me alone and pliable.
Then she reached into her designer bag and pulled out a manila envelope. Thick. Official.
My stomach dropped.
“I spoke with an attorney,” she said. “A friend of the family.”
Harper made a sound like she’d choke someone.
Barbara kept going. “Given your… situation, and Dylan’s… absence, we need to ensure the boys are protected.”
Protected. From me?
My voice came out sharp. “Dylan’s absence is his choice.”
Barbara’s eyes held mine. “Dylan is not in a position to make choices right now.”
That sentence landed wrong. Like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit. “What does that mean?”
Barbara’s gaze flicked away for half a second—toward the windows, toward the sky, toward anything but my face.
And in that half a second, fear slid cold and slick down my spine.
“Where is Dylan?” I demanded.
Barbara looked back at me and finally, finally let the mask slip.
“Dylan is missing,” she said quietly. “And you need to sign this.”
The lobby noise blurred. My mom’s hand clamped onto my arm. Harper swore. Somewhere, a baby cried.
I stared at the envelope like it was a bomb. “Missing,” I repeated, the word tasting unreal. “What do you mean missing?”
Barbara’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He hasn’t been reachable for two days.”
My brain tried to catch up, stumbling over images: Dylan in his crisp shirt, Dylan with his lawyer in my hospital room, Dylan saying We’ll revisit this after the twins are born.
“Two days?” I whispered. “He was here—he dropped papers off. He—”
“I know,” Barbara snapped, the first crack in her composure. Then she inhaled, composed herself again. “He left Denver. He said he needed space. Then he stopped answering.”
Harper crossed her arms. “Sounds like Dylan.”
Barbara’s eyes shot to Harper. “Enough. This is serious.”
My voice went strangely calm. “And the envelope?”
Barbara lifted it slightly. “Temporary guardianship. In case… something happens. The boys are Monroe blood. They should be with family.”
My lungs seized. “They are with family,” I said, and it came out shaking. “They’re with me.”
Barbara’s smile returned, colder now. “Tessa, you’re recovering from a traumatic pregnancy. You have no stable plan. You’re an artist—”
“Don’t,” I breathed, rage flaring hot enough to cut through exhaustion. “Don’t you dare.”
Barbara’s eyes hardened. “The courts will ask questions. Dylan’s income—”
“Dylan cheated on me,” I said, voice rising. “He tried to divorce me while I was on bed rest. He wasn’t there when I almost lost them. And now you’re here, trying to take my children because he vanished?”
Barbara’s jaw clenched. “I’m trying to protect them from instability.”
Harper stepped forward again. “Lady, you are the instability.”
My mom squeezed my arm. “Tessa, breathe.”
I did. Once. Twice.
Then I did something I didn’t know I still had in me.
I took the envelope from Barbara.
Her eyes sharpened like she’d won.
I opened it.
Scanned the top page.
My vision tunneled.
Because Barbara hadn’t come with a safety plan.
She’d come with a weapon.
The document wasn’t temporary guardianship. It was a petition. Filed. Already. With Dylan’s signature line left blank and a section that read:
Mother deemed unfit due to emotional volatility and financial insecurity.
My hands went ice-cold.
I looked up at Barbara. “You already filed this.”
Barbara’s lips parted, just slightly.
So she knew.
Harper leaned over my shoulder and read fast, then made a sound so furious I thought she’d actually lunge. “Oh my God.”
My mom’s face drained of color. “Barbara—”
Barbara’s voice turned defensive. “It’s procedure. Precautionary.”
“You called me unfit,” I said, and my voice didn’t sound like mine. It sounded like something that had crawled out of a fire. “You don’t get to call me unfit after what your son did.”
Barbara’s eyes went flinty. “Tessa, you’re not thinking rationally.”
I laughed once—sharp, broken. “Rationally? I almost died. My sons almost died. And you’re here with paperwork.”
Barbara’s face tightened, and then she leaned closer, lowering her voice as if she were offering compassion. “Sign it, and we can do this peacefully. Fight it, and I will bury you in court.”
Harper’s hands clenched. “Try.”
Barbara ignored her. “Do you want your boys to grow up with nothing because you chose pride over practicality?”
Pride.
That old insult dressed in new clothes.
Something in me snapped into place. Not rage. Not despair.
Steel.
I folded the document neatly. Smoothed it like it mattered.
Then I ripped it in half.
Once.
Twice.
Again, until it was confetti.
Barbara stared, stunned, like she’d never seen someone refuse her in her entire life.
I dropped the pieces at her feet.
“Those boys,” I said, voice steady now, “are not Monroe property. They are my children. And if you come near them again with paperwork, I will make sure every judge in Colorado knows exactly who Dylan Monroe is—and exactly who raised him.”
Barbara’s face went pale. “You can’t—”
“Oh, I can,” I said softly. “And I will.”
For a second, no one moved. Even the lobby seemed to hush.
Then Barbara’s eyes flicked over my shoulder.
And her face changed.
Not anger.
Not disdain.
Fear.
I turned, following her gaze.
A man stood near the doorway to the unit—tall, in scrubs, hair slightly mussed like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. A badge on his chest. Quiet eyes that held storms back.
Dr. Aiden Blake.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not off shift. Not waiting.
But he was.
And he was looking at Barbara like he already knew exactly what she’d done.
Aiden walked toward us, calm but unmistakably protective. He stopped at my side—not touching me, not claiming me, just… there.
“Ms. Monroe,” he said, voice even.
Barbara’s chin lifted, but her confidence flickered. “Doctor.”
“I’m going to ask you to leave,” Aiden said.
Barbara blinked. “Excuse me?”
Aiden’s eyes didn’t move. “This patient is under medical care. Stress is a health risk. If you continue to harass her, hospital security will escort you out.”
Barbara’s voice went tight. “This is a family matter.”
Aiden’s mouth twitched—barely. “Then handle it outside the hospital. Not here.”
Barbara’s gaze snapped to me. “You’re bringing doctors into this now?”
I met her eyes. “You brought court into a maternity ward.”
Barbara looked like she wanted to spit something cruel. But the room had shifted. She could feel it. The balance of power, tilting away from her.
She turned sharply, coat swishing, and walked out with rigid dignity.
The automatic doors hissed closed behind her.
And I stood there shaking—half from adrenaline, half from exhaustion—while Harper exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for a month.
My mom touched my cheek. “Baby,” she whispered. “Are you okay?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
Aiden looked down at the shredded paper on the floor, then back at me. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know she’d show up.”
“Dylan is missing,” I managed, voice thin.
Aiden’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Missing?”
Barbara’s lie or truth hung in the air like a blade.
Harper stepped in, voice sharp and practical. “Okay. New plan. We don’t trust a word out of her mouth. We call someone who does.”
My brain felt like wet cotton. “Who?”
Harper pulled out her phone. “My cousin works in family law. And I know a private investigator who owes me a favor.”
My mom blinked. “Harper—”
Harper shot her a look. “Not now. Tessa’s been polite long enough.”
Aiden’s gaze stayed on me. “You need rest,” he said, firm in that gentle way doctors get when they’re trying not to sound like they’re ordering you. “You need to heal. Your boys need you steady.”
I swallowed. My eyes burned. “I can’t be steady if Dylan is out there… if he’s—”
Aiden’s voice softened. “Then we find out the truth. But not at the cost of your recovery.”
Harper pointed a finger at Aiden. “You. You’re good. Stay.”
Aiden blinked. “I—”
“Don’t argue,” Harper said. “It’s been a week of men abandoning her. You’re not allowed.”
Aiden’s eyes flicked to mine. The question in them was quiet: Do you want me here?
My throat tightened. I nodded once.
“Okay,” Aiden said simply. “I’m here.”
And for the first time since the ambulance, since the beeping monitors and Dylan’s voice with another woman in the background, I felt something shift.
Not relief.
Not safety.
But the first solid plank of a bridge forming under my feet.
2
Two hours later, I was in a wheelchair at the curb outside the hospital, the winter sun bright enough to make my eyes water. My discharge folder sat in my lap like a cruel joke—pages of instructions for how to care for myself, as if my body was the most fragile thing in my life right now.
The twins were still inside. Not inside me—inside the NICU. Behind glass. Behind locked doors. Safe, for now, in the hands of nurses with calm voices and steady fingers.
Empty-armed. That was the phrase that kept looping in my head. Like an insult. Like a verdict.
Harper drove my car because I didn’t trust my legs. My mom sat in the backseat, clutching a bag of my things.
Aiden stood by the passenger door, talking quietly with Harper like they’d known each other longer than ten minutes.
When he noticed me watching, he leaned down so his face was level with mine. “Text me when you’re home,” he said. “If you feel dizzy or the bleeding increases, you come back. No heroics.”
My lips twitched. “Yes, doctor.”
His eyes softened. “Not just doctor.” Then he hesitated, like he’d stepped too close to something intimate. “Tessa. You’re not alone.”
I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
He straightened, and for a second I saw the fatigue behind his composure. The same kind of fatigue that lived in me. Different battles, same cost.
Harper cleared her throat. “Alright, Blake. We get it. You’re the wholesome male lead. Now step back before I make you babysit.”
Aiden gave a quiet laugh, then stepped away.
As we pulled out, I looked back at the hospital building until it disappeared behind trees and traffic.
I felt like I’d left pieces of myself in that NICU.
And now Barbara had threatened to take the rest.
3
The condo was too quiet.
The moment Harper opened the door, the silence hit like a wall. The air smelled faintly of peonies that had died in a vase weeks ago. The same vase from my grandmother.
My studio corner sat untouched—sketchbooks stacked, pencils in jars, watercolor palette stained with dried pigment. A half-finished fairy on thick paper, wings reaching upward.
I stared at her and felt something sharp in my chest.
Five years with Dylan. Three married. And suddenly it all felt like a story someone else told me—romantic, soft-edged, unreal.
Harper dropped the bags by the couch. “Okay,” she said briskly. “You sit. You drink water. You don’t spiral.”
My mom moved to the kitchen like she’d lived here her whole life, opening cabinets, checking what food existed, already mothering me into survival.
I sank onto the couch, every muscle trembling with delayed shock. My abdomen ached, stitched and sore. My breasts ached too—milk coming in for babies I couldn’t hold. Biology didn’t care about circumstance.
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number:
Stop making this harder than it has to be.
My pulse spiked.
Another buzz.
Barbara is trying to help you. Let her.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Harper snatched the phone from my hand, read, and her eyes went flat with fury. “That’s Dylan.”
My mouth went dry. “How do you know?”
Harper pointed at the phrasing like it was evidence. “Because that man has never had an original thought in his life. ‘Harder than it has to be’ is his favorite way to say ‘I want convenience.’”
My mom set a glass of water down hard enough to slosh. “He has a lot of nerve.”
My hands shook. I typed back before anyone could stop me.
Where are you?
The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Then:
Doesn’t matter. I’m handling things.
I swallowed. You’re missing. Your mother said you’re missing.
No bubble.
No reply.
Fear and rage braided together until I couldn’t tell which was which. “He’s doing this on purpose,” I whispered. “He wants me scared. He wants me off balance so she can—”
Harper crouched in front of me, taking my hands. “Listen to me. Barbara filing that petition means they’re not guessing. They’re planning.”
My voice cracked. “Why would he disappear?”
Harper’s eyes narrowed. “Because he’s hiding something. Or because he’s a coward. Could be both.”
My mom sat beside me and rubbed my back, slow and steady like she was soothing a child. “We will protect those boys,” she said. “No one is taking them.”
I tried to breathe. Tried not to picture a courtroom where Barbara’s lawyer held up my sketchbooks like they were proof of instability.
Artist. Emotional. Unfit.
The word burned.
My gaze drifted to my studio corner again. The fairy’s wings. Her reaching hand.
And suddenly I knew what I had to do—not just legally, not just practically.
I needed to become undeniable.
4
The next morning, I woke to the sound of Harper talking on the phone in my kitchen like she owned it.
“You can’t tell me that’s ‘not enough,’” she hissed. “Two days no contact, a filed guardianship petition, a mother-in-law with a chokehold on reality—”
She spotted me and lowered her voice. “Okay. Call me back. Today.”
She ended the call and turned, eyes bright with that particular kind of determination that made people either follow her or get run over.
“Okay,” she said. “I spoke to my cousin. Family law. The petition Barbara filed is aggressive and stupid, but not impossible to fight.”
My stomach clenched. “Stupid?”
Harper tossed me a banana like I was a quarterback. “Stupid because courts don’t love grandparents who try to snatch babies away from moms without proof. But aggressive because she’s planting a narrative.”
My mom entered with a steaming mug of broth. “Tessa needs to eat.”
Harper nodded, then lowered her voice. “We need to counter-narrative. We need evidence Dylan abandoned you. We need medical records. We need texts. We need Harper-level petty receipts.”
I almost smiled despite myself. “Harper-level petty receipts?”
Harper’s grin was sharp. “Girl, I have screenshots older than some marriages.”
The laugh that escaped me turned into a sob halfway through. I covered my face.
My mom wrapped her arms around me. “Shh,” she whispered. “Let it out.”
I cried until my ribs hurt. Until my stitches pulled. Until Harper shoved tissues at me like she was both annoyed and tender.
When I finally slowed, Harper said, softer, “We also need to find Dylan.”
The words hit heavy. “I don’t care where he is,” I lied.
Harper lifted one brow. “You care because if he’s ‘missing,’ Barbara can spin it like you’re the unstable one. Like you’re the reason he ran.”
My throat tightened. “I didn’t make him cheat.”
“No,” Harper said. “But people like Barbara don’t need truth. They need a story.”
I wiped my face. “How do we find him?”
Harper’s phone buzzed again. She glanced at the screen and her mouth tightened into something satisfied.
“My PI friend,” she said. “He started digging.”
My heart thudded. “Already?”
Harper shrugged. “I told you. He owes me.”
She answered on speaker.
A gruff male voice filled the kitchen. “Harper? I got something.”
Harper leaned on the counter. “Talk to me, Vince.”
“Your guy,” Vince said, “Dylan Monroe. Not missing. Not even close.”
My stomach dropped.
“He’s in Colorado Springs,” Vince continued. “Checked into a hotel under his middle name. Been there two nights.”
Harper’s eyes narrowed. “Alone?”
Vince snorted. “Nope. He’s with a woman.”
The room tilted.
My mom swore softly.
Harper’s voice went deadly calm. “Chelsea?”
Vince hesitated. “Not Chelsea. Different woman. Blonde. Late thirties. Drives a Lexus. And here’s the kicker—she’s a paralegal at a firm that does family law.”
My blood went cold.
Harper’s eyes flashed. “So he’s hiding with someone who can help him. Of course he is.”
I stared at my kitchen wall, trying to make sense of how betrayal could keep reinventing itself.
Vince kept talking. “You want photos, I can get ‘em.”
Harper didn’t hesitate. “Get ‘em.”
I found my voice, thin and shaking. “Why is he doing this?”
Harper looked at me, and her expression shifted from fury to something almost gentle.
“Because,” she said, “Dylan wants out without consequences. And Barbara wants control. And they think you’re too tired to fight.”
She picked up my hand, squeezed once.
“Bad news,” she said. “You’re not.”
5
That afternoon, we went back to the hospital.
Not for me. For the twins.
Harper marched like a woman on a mission, carrying a folder of printed screenshots and notes as if paper could double as armor. My mom walked beside me with a hand under my elbow.
The NICU doors buzzed us in.
The air inside was warm, humming with machines. Dim lights. Nurses moving like calm ghosts.
My sons lay in their incubators, each one the size of a loaf of bread, each one a universe.
Twin A—Noah—had my mouth, Harper declared. Twin B—Miles—had Dylan’s nose, which made my stomach twist with something complicated and dark.
I washed my hands, scrubbed until my skin was raw, and then slid my fingers through the porthole holes in the incubator to touch Noah’s tiny foot.
He curled his toes.
Something in me broke open.
“Hi,” I whispered. “It’s Mama.”
His chest fluttered, the monitor beeped in its steady rhythm.
I moved to Miles. His eyes were closed, lashes absurdly long. He breathed with help, little sighs into plastic.
“I’m here,” I told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Harper stood behind me, uncharacteristically quiet.
My mom prayed under her breath.
And then I noticed someone standing near the nurses’ station.
Barbara.
Again.
My body went rigid.
But this time, she wasn’t alone.
She stood beside a man in a suit—Evan Caldwell, Dylan’s lawyer.
My vision sharpened like a weapon being drawn.
Harper noticed too. Her shoulders squared. “Oh, they are bold,” she murmured.
Barbara turned, saw us, and smiled that same controlled smile.
“Tessa,” she said, as if we were friends meeting at brunch. “We need to discuss visitation.”
Visitation.
My hands clenched so hard my nails cut my palm. “They are in the NICU.”
Barbara tilted her head. “Which is why it’s important to establish an arrangement now.”
Evan stepped forward smoothly. “Mrs. Monroe—Tessa—given the circumstances, we’d like to propose a temporary schedule—”
“No,” I said, and my voice carried in the quiet room like a slap.
A nurse looked up, cautious.
Barbara’s smile tightened. “Tessa, don’t make a scene.”
I took a step forward. The monitors beeped behind me like a warning.
“I’m not making a scene,” I said softly. “I’m setting a boundary.”
Evan held up his hands. “Let’s keep this civil.”
Harper laughed without humor. “Civil? You tried to serve her guardianship papers at discharge.”
Evan blinked. “That was—”
“A lie,” Harper cut in. “And we have evidence.”
Barbara’s eyes narrowed. “Evidence of what?”
Harper pulled out her phone and tapped. “Evidence that Dylan is not missing. He’s hiding in Colorado Springs with a paralegal. Want photos?”
Barbara’s face flickered—just for a second. Shock. Then rage.
Evan’s composure slipped. “That’s—”
“True,” Harper said. “And if you come near those babies with another piece of paper, we’re filing a complaint with the bar association and the hospital.”
Barbara’s mouth opened, then closed.
She looked at me, eyes cold and calculating. “Tessa, you don’t understand what you’re doing.”
I stepped closer, voice low so only she could hear. “Oh, I do.”
Barbara’s gaze slid to the incubators, to my sons, and something ugly crossed her face—possession.
“These babies are Monroes,” she whispered.
I leaned in, heart pounding, and whispered back, “These babies are mine. And if you forget that again, I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your perfectly controlled life.”
For a second, Barbara looked like she might actually strike me.
Then a new voice cut through the tension.
“Is there a problem here?”
Dr. Aiden Blake approached, calm but unmistakably authoritative. A nurse walked behind him.
Barbara’s eyes flashed. “Doctor, this is private.”
Aiden’s gaze didn’t move. “Not in this unit. Family disputes don’t belong in the NICU.”
Evan cleared his throat. “Dr. Blake, we’re simply trying to establish a plan—”
Aiden held up a hand. “You can establish a plan outside this ward. If you continue disrupting patient care, security will escort you out and restrict your access.”
Barbara’s smile turned brittle. “You can’t restrict a grandmother from seeing her grandchildren.”
Aiden’s voice stayed even. “I can restrict anyone from entering this unit if they create stress that risks the health of the infants or the mother.”
Barbara stared, jaw tight, then turned sharply. “We’ll handle this through the proper channels,” she said, looking at me like I was something she planned to crush.
Evan followed, face pale.
When they were gone, my knees nearly buckled.
Aiden stepped closer. “Are you okay?”
I swallowed hard. “No,” I admitted. “But I’m not scared of her.”
Aiden’s eyes softened. “Good.”
Harper exhaled. “Okay, doctor. You’re officially on our team.”
Aiden’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t realize there were teams.”
Harper grinned. “There are always teams.”
6
That night, alone in my condo, I opened my sketchbook.
The page was blank.
My hands hovered over the paper, trembling—not from weakness, but from pressure. Like if I put pencil to paper, I’d admit something: that I was still me beneath the betrayal, beneath the fear.
I thought of Noah’s curled toes. Miles’s long lashes. The way their lives depended on machines and my stubborn will.
I began to draw.
Not fairies this time.
Two small hands reaching toward each other, separated by a thin line—incubator glass. Their fingers almost touching.
As I shaded, my breathing slowed. My heartbeat steadied. The world narrowed to graphite and paper.
Halfway through, my phone buzzed.
A text from Dylan’s number.
Stop letting Harper poison you. We can work this out. For the boys.
My pencil snapped in my fingers.
I stared at the broken graphite, then at the message.
For the boys.
He’d said that before, outside the hospital, after Chelsea left. As if my sons were bargaining chips. As if fatherhood was a costume he could put on when it suited him.
I typed back, hands steady.
You don’t get to use them as an excuse. If you want to be their father, show up in court. Show up in the NICU. Show up as a man.
I hit send.
Then, for the first time in weeks, I didn’t wait for his reply.
I went back to my drawing.
7
The court date came faster than it should have.
Barbara moved like she had resources, connections, money that opened doors. She filed for emergency temporary guardianship “out of concern” and tried to attach my postpartum pain as evidence of instability.
Our lawyer—Harper’s cousin, a sharp woman named Simone—met us in a small office that smelled like lemon cleaner and determination.
Simone was in her early forties, hair in tight twists, eyes like a spotlight. She flipped through our folder and nodded slowly.
“This is ugly,” she said. “But it’s not unbeatable.”
My stomach twisted. “She called me unfit.”
Simone’s mouth tightened. “They always do when they can’t attack your facts. They attack your character.”
Harper leaned forward. “We have texts. We have proof Dylan wasn’t missing.”
Simone nodded. “Good. We also have hospital records showing he served divorce papers while you were on bed rest. That plays terribly.”
My mom clasped my hand. “Will the judge take the babies?”
Simone held her gaze. “Judges don’t like taking newborns from mothers without real evidence of danger. Stress and exhaustion are not danger.”
Relief loosened something in my chest.
Simone continued. “But Barbara will try to paint you as financially unstable. We need a plan. Income. Support system.”
Harper raised her hand like a student. “She has support system. Me. Her mom. And Dr. Blake—”
Aiden, who had driven me to the office, cleared his throat and looked mildly alarmed to be included.
Simone’s eyes flicked to him. “Doctor?”
Aiden nodded politely. “I’m her physician at the hospital. Not… like that.” He shot Harper a look.
Harper’s grin was wicked. “Yet.”
I felt my cheeks heat.
Simone tapped her pen. “We also need to show Tessa is stable, proactive, and engaged. Anything that speaks to her work, her community…”
My mind flashed to Harper’s surprise: Summit Hill Gallery. The art collective invitation. The fall showcase.
“I have an offer,” I said quietly.
Everyone looked at me.
I pulled the envelope from my bag and slid it across the desk.
Simone read, eyebrows lifting. “Summit Hill Art Collective. Fall showcase.”
Harper beamed like she’d invented art. My mom’s eyes went wet.
Simone nodded slowly, impressed. “This is good. Not just for money—though we can leverage that—but for narrative. You are not drifting. You are building.”
I swallowed, feeling something unfamiliar: hope sharp enough to hurt.
Aiden’s gaze met mine. Warm. Steady.
“You are building,” he repeated softly, like he wanted me to believe it.
And I did.
8
The day of court, I wore a navy dress that didn’t quite fit my postpartum body but made me feel like a person again. My hair was pulled back. My hands were steady.
Barbara arrived in a cream suit with Evan at her side. She looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine ad for expensive cruelty.
Dylan wasn’t there.
Of course he wasn’t.
His empty chair glared like an accusation.
Barbara spoke first, voice smooth and concerned, describing me as “overwhelmed” and “emotionally volatile,” implying my art career was a hobby, implying my support network was chaotic.
Then Simone stood and cut through the room like a blade.
She presented Dylan’s texts. The proof he wasn’t missing. The evidence he abandoned me during a medical crisis. The attempted divorce in a hospital bed. The guardianship petition filled with insinuations.
And then Simone did something I didn’t expect.
She held up my sketch.
The one of two small hands reaching through glass.
“This,” Simone said, voice calm, “is what an unfit mother does? While recovering from trauma, she draws her children. She plans. She prepares. She documents. She fights.”
Barbara’s face tightened.
The judge—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and no patience—looked over her glasses at Barbara.
“Ms. Monroe,” she said, “you filed an emergency petition based on an alleged missing father. Yet evidence suggests he is not missing at all. Why did you proceed?”
Barbara’s voice faltered for the first time. “We were concerned—”
“Concern does not justify misinformation,” the judge said sharply. “And it does not justify weaponizing a mother’s recovery.”
Barbara’s lips pressed tight.
The judge continued. “This petition is denied.”
The words hit like a bell.
Denied.
Harper grabbed my hand so hard it hurt. My mom exhaled a sob.
Barbara’s face went pale with rage.
The judge wasn’t finished. “Additionally, I am issuing a temporary restraining order prohibiting Ms. Barbara Monroe from entering the NICU or contacting Ms. Tessa Monroe directly until a full hearing.”
Barbara’s eyes went wide. “That’s—”
“That is my decision,” the judge said. “If your son wants visitation rights, he can appear in court like an adult.”
Barbara’s mouth opened, then closed.
For the first time, she looked small.
As we left the courtroom, Harper whispered, “I could kiss that judge.”
My legs felt weak, but not from fear. From release.
Aiden, who’d been sitting behind us quietly, stood when I did. He didn’t touch me, but his presence anchored me.
“You did it,” he said softly.
I swallowed hard. “We did.”
Harper grinned. “Yeah, and we’re not done.”
9
Three weeks later, Noah and Miles came home.
They were still small, still fragile, still learning how to exist outside machines. But they were mine to hold now—warm weight in my arms, the soft rise and fall of their chests against my skin.
The first night, I sat in the rocking chair in the nursery—formerly Dylan’s office, now painted pale blue by Harper and my mom while I was still hospitalized—and I held them both, one tucked into each arm, and I cried silently into their hair.
Not because I was sad.
Because I was alive.
Because they were alive.
Because I had fought and won the first battle.
And because outside the window, Denver’s city lights blinked like distant stars, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was reaching for something unseen.
I was holding it.
Harper came in quietly, carrying two bottles. “How’s the twin mom life?”
I smiled tiredly. “Like I’m doing a marathon while someone throws laundry at my head.”
Harper snorted. “Accurate.”
My mom appeared behind her, warm blanket in hand. “You need sleep,” she scolded gently.
I shifted, looking down at the boys. Noah’s fist was curled against my chest. Miles’s mouth made tiny sucking motions even while asleep.
“I will,” I lied.
Harper leaned against the doorframe, suddenly more serious. “Vince called,” she said.
My stomach tightened. “About Dylan?”
Harper nodded. “He’s back in town.”
Heat flared behind my ribs. “And?”
Harper’s eyes narrowed. “And he’s trying to meet with Simone. He says he wants to ‘make things right.’”
I let out a slow breath. “He wants access.”
My mom’s mouth tightened. “After everything—”
Harper raised her hands. “Simone says we can negotiate supervised visitation if he shows up consistently. But we control the terms.”
I looked down at my sons again. The anger in me was still there—hot and justified—but it wasn’t steering anymore. It was fuel.
“Fine,” I said quietly. “He can meet them. But he doesn’t get to rewrite the story.”
Harper smiled, proud and fierce. “That’s my girl.”
10
Dylan saw the twins for the first time in a supervised visitation room at a community center, two months later.
He walked in looking like he’d slept in his car and then tried to iron his guilt into a crisp shirt. His hair was slightly longer. His eyes were rimmed red. He looked—finally—like a man who had consequences.
He stopped when he saw me sitting in the corner with Noah and Miles in their car seats beside me. Harper sat across the room like a guard dog. Simone sat at a table with a legal pad.
Dylan’s gaze dropped to the boys.
Something flickered in his face—shock, tenderness, regret.
“They’re…” His voice cracked. “They’re so small.”
I didn’t respond.
He took a careful step closer, as if approaching wild animals. “Hi,” he whispered to them. “I’m—”
“You’re Dylan,” Harper cut in. “We’re not doing the Hallmark speech.”
Dylan flinched. His eyes lifted to mine. “Tessa,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”
I studied him—really studied him. The man who’d brought peonies. The man who’d made me feel safe until he didn’t. The man who’d chosen escape over responsibility every single time.
“Sorry doesn’t fix what you broke,” I said quietly. “But the boys deserve a father who shows up.”
He swallowed hard. “I want to.”
Simone’s pen tapped once. “Then you’ll follow the plan. Consistent visitation. Parenting classes. Drug and alcohol screening.”
Dylan blinked. “Drug and— I don’t—”
Simone’s stare was flat. “You disappeared, Mr. Monroe. You lied. You hid with someone connected to family law. You don’t get to be offended.”
Dylan’s jaw tightened, then loosened as he exhaled. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Harper leaned forward. “And Barbara?”
Dylan’s eyes flashed with something like shame. “She… won’t be involved.”
I held his gaze. “That’s not your choice alone,” I said. “That’s a court order.”
Dylan nodded once, swallowing. “I know.”
For a moment, the room was quiet except for Noah’s tiny hiccup.
Dylan reached toward the car seat, fingers trembling. “Can I… can I hold one?”
I looked at Simone. She nodded slightly.
I lifted Noah carefully and placed him in Dylan’s arms.
Dylan froze as if he’d been handed something holy and fragile—which, in a way, he had.
Noah stirred, face scrunching, then settled again.
Dylan’s eyes filled. He blinked hard, trying not to cry.
Harper watched like she wanted to hate him but couldn’t deny biology.
I didn’t feel softness for Dylan. Not romance. Not longing.
But I felt something else: clarity.
This wasn’t about us anymore.
This was about the boys.
And about me.
Because while Dylan held Noah, I noticed something: Dylan’s hands were shaking, but mine weren’t.
I had become steady.
11
Fall came in a rush of sleepless nights, bottle warmers, and tiny socks that vanished like magic.
It also came with paint.
Summit Hill Art Collective set up the showcase in a converted warehouse downtown—brick walls, industrial lights, music low and pulsing. My pieces hung on the wall like parts of my soul made visible: the NICU hands reaching through glass, a mother’s silhouette with two bright stars pressed to her chest, a fairy with wings that looked less like fantasy and more like survival.
Harper wore a black dress and the expression of someone about to commit crimes for my success. My mom held the twins in matching sweaters, both boys sleeping against her shoulders like they trusted the world.
Aiden arrived quietly, not dressed in scrubs for once. Dark jacket. Soft sweater. He looked almost unfamiliar without hospital lighting.
He walked up beside me and stopped in front of the NICU piece.
“You drew this while you were still bleeding,” he said softly.
I nodded. “I drew it because I couldn’t hold them.”
Aiden’s gaze moved to me. “You hold them now.”
Emotion tightened my throat. “Yeah.”
The gallery owner—a woman named Marisol with silver rings and sharp eyes—approached with a smile.
“Tessa,” she said, “your work… it’s raw. It’s honest. It hurts in the best way.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “That’s… a compliment?”
Marisol grinned. “It’s a compliment. And it’s selling.”
My breath caught. “What?”
Marisol pointed across the room where a couple stood in front of my piece, whispering, credit card in hand.
“You’re not just an artist,” Marisol said. “You’re a voice. People need voices.”
Harper squealed so loudly someone turned.
My mom’s eyes filled. “Oh, honey,” she whispered.
I felt dizzy. Not from weakness. From the sudden widening of the world.
Aiden stepped closer, voice low. “You did this.”
I shook my head. “I survived.”
He looked at me like those were the same thing. “Sometimes,” he said, “they are.”
Later, when the crowd thinned and the twins fussed, I stepped outside into the crisp night air, needing a moment.
Denver’s skyline glittered. My breath fogged.
I leaned against the brick wall and closed my eyes.
Footsteps approached.
Aiden’s voice. “You okay?”
I opened my eyes. “I’m… overwhelmed.”
Aiden nodded. “Good overwhelmed?”
“Terrifying overwhelmed,” I admitted. “Like the floor is moving.”
Aiden leaned beside me, close but not touching. “You’ve been on a floor that moved for months.”
I huffed a laugh. “Yeah. And somehow this feels scarier.”
“Because it’s yours,” he said. “Because it’s not pain forcing you forward. It’s possibility.”
My chest tightened. I looked at him. “Why are you still here?”
Aiden’s gaze met mine, steady and honest. “Because you asked me to stay. And because I… wanted to.”
Silence stretched between us, full of everything we hadn’t named.
Inside, a baby cried—one of mine, probably. My body responded automatically, milk letdown, ache, instinct.
Aiden glanced toward the door, then back at me. “They need you,” he said softly.
I nodded. “They do.”
Then, quieter, “And so do I.”
Aiden didn’t move fast. He didn’t crowd me. He simply lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles against mine—gentle, asking.
I let my fingers curl around his.
For a moment, the world was still.
Not perfect.
Not easy.
But real.
12
Barbara violated the restraining order once, three weeks later.
She showed up outside my condo building, standing near the mailbox like she belonged there. When she saw me with the stroller, her face lit with that controlled, hungry smile.
“Tessa,” she said, stepping forward.
My heart lurched, but I didn’t stop. I didn’t flinch.
Harper was with me. My mom was upstairs. Aiden was a phone call away. Simone had told me exactly what to do.
I pulled my phone out and started recording.
Barbara’s smile faltered. “Really?”
“Yes,” I said calmly. “You are violating a court order.”
Barbara’s eyes narrowed. “I’m just trying to see my grandsons.”
“You can request a hearing,” I said. “Through my attorney. Not through intimidation.”
Barbara’s voice sharpened. “You’re poisoning them against their family.”
I smiled, small and cold. “You did that yourself when you raised a man who thought cheating was easier than showing up.”
Barbara’s face flushed.
Harper leaned in. “Smile for the camera, Barbie.”
Barbara’s gaze flicked to the stroller, to the tiny sleeping faces of Noah and Miles, and something—something almost human—twitched in her expression.
Then it hardened again.
“This isn’t over,” she hissed.
I held her gaze. “It is for me.”
Barbara stepped back, turned, and walked away quickly, as if she suddenly remembered she could actually lose.
Two days later, Simone filed a motion.
A week after that, the judge extended the restraining order.
Barbara stopped appearing.
Control doesn’t like losing.
But it hates documentation more.
13
A year later, Noah and Miles toddled through my studio corner—now a full room—leaving a trail of plastic blocks and chaos behind them.
They were healthy. Loud. Opinionated. Full of giggles that cracked my heart open every time.
Dylan showed up for visits consistently now. Not perfect. Not redeemed in some movie-magic way. But present. Trying. Learning. The court kept boundaries. So did I.
And me?
I had a second showcase. Then a third. I illustrated a children’s book inspired by two tiny hands reaching through glass. It sold better than anyone expected.
On the morning of my first big signing event, I stood in the kitchen with raspberry leaf tea—not because I was pregnant now, but because the smell reminded me of who I had been.
Light poured in, warm and golden.
My fingers were stained again, this time from watercolor.
Aiden stood in the doorway, coffee in hand, watching Noah and Miles argue over a stuffed dinosaur like it was a legal dispute.
“You ready?” he asked.
I smiled. “No.”
Aiden’s eyes softened. “You’ll do it anyway.”
“Yeah,” I said, and I meant it. “I will.”
Harper burst in behind him, holding her phone up. “Okay, Instagram is thirsty and your fans are unhinged. Also, Dylan just texted me asking if dinosaurs are ‘too aggressive’ for toddlers.”
Aiden laughed. My mom called from the living room that the boys were trying to eat crayons.
And in the middle of all of it—mess, noise, love, survival—I felt something settle in my chest.
Not the fragile, naive belief I’d once called safety.
Something better.
A life I built with my own hands.
I looked down at my sons—two bright, stubborn miracles—and then at the man beside me who had stayed, quietly, when he didn’t have to.
I didn’t freeze this time.
I moved forward.
Because I wasn’t leaving the maternity ward empty-armed anymore.
I was carrying a future.
