I couldn’t stop staring at her sleeping face, memorizing every detail like I was afraid she’d disappear if I blinked. My daughter. My daughter.
After nine months in Dubai, living through endless video calls and blurry ultrasound photos, I was finally home to hold my precious Jenna.
The weight of her in my arms felt like an anchor, grounding me after months of floating through life in a foreign land.
“She has your nose,” Ruby whispered beside me, leaning in to give me a hug. “I kept telling Mom that during our calls. And look at those little wrinkles when she dreams… she’s so much like you.”
I turned to kiss her, breathing in the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo, letting myself sink into the comfort of my home.
“I missed you both so much. The apartment in Dubai was just a place to sleep but being here with you two… this is home.”
“We missed you, too,” Ruby replied. “It was hard going through this without you.”
Max, our German Shepherd mix, sat quietly at my feet, his tail thumping softly against the nursery floor. He hadn’t left my side since I walked through the door six hours ago, except to check on the baby whenever she made the slightest sound.
His presence was reassuring, a constant guardian watching over our little family.
“He’s already the best big brother,” Ruby said, scratching behind his ears. “Aren’t you, boy? He sleeps right here every night, keeping watch.”
“Just like he used to do with my shoes,” I chuckled, remembering how he’d guard my work boots before I left. “Remember that, buddy?”
Those first few days felt like floating in a dream. We settled into a rhythm of diaper changes and midnight feedings, stealing kisses between baby duties. Max watched over us all, his brown eyes alert but peaceful.
I caught up on all the little moments I’d missed with Jenna: her first smile, the way she’d scrunch her nose before crying, how she’d grip Ruby’s finger while nursing. Everything felt perfect. Too perfect.
The first crack appeared during a 3 a.m. feeding.
I’d gotten up to warm a bottle when I heard Ruby’s whispered voice from the living room. The soft yellow light from her phone screen cast shadows across her face, making her look somehow older and worn.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she was saying, her free hand twisting nervously in her hair. “He’s home now, and—” She stopped abruptly when she saw me, ending the call with a quick, “Mom, I’ve got to go.”
But it wasn’t her mom.
I knew the way she talked to her mother — casual, relaxed, punctuated with little laughs. This was tense and guilty. The way she wouldn’t meet my eyes as she hurried past me to the kitchen twisted something in my gut.
“Everything okay?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light, though my heart was already picking up speed.
“Just Mom being Mom,” she said, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You know how she worries. Especially with the baby and everything.”
