Chapter 9 - When the Room Changed
The twins arrived earlier than we hoped.
At thirty-five weeks and two days, I woke to a feeling that made me sit upright and reach for the instructions Dr. Lane had given me.
By sunrise, I was at the hospital.
By breakfast, it was clear I wouldn’t be leaving still pregnant.
Roman answered on the first ring.
“I need you,” I said.
“I’m coming.”
This time, there was no hesitation in me.
No fear that asking for help would be entered into some private ledger as proof that I couldn’t live independently.
At the hospital, I had already named him as my support person.
The staff spoke to me.
They explained what was happening.
When circumstances changed, they explained again.
Roman sat beside the bed with his cane folded within reach.
He didn’t know where to put his fear.
I could see it in his shoulders.
But he kept his hand open beneath mine.
“What do you need?” he asked.
“Tell me something ordinary.”
He thought for a moment.
“June has decided the bookstore needs a cat.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“She says the shop lacks management.”
Despite the pressure building through my back, I laughed.
“She’s allergic.”
“She considers that a personnel issue.”
When another contraction came, the laughter disappeared.
Roman stayed.
He counted when I wanted counting.
He was quiet when I told him to stop.
As labor progressed, our daughter’s heart rate became a concern.
The medical team explained that they recommended a cesarean delivery.
I asked questions.
Roman listened.
When I said yes, he pressed my hand.
“I’m here.”
In the operating room, everything felt bright and distant.
I could hear equipment, voices, the soft movement of people who knew their work.
Roman sat near my head.
His face had gone pale.
I turned toward him.
“Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“Our bookstore cat.”
He swallowed.
“June wants to name it Chairman Meow.”
“That’s terrible.”
“I told her.”
Then a cry cut through the room.
Sharp.
Furious.
Alive.
Roman stopped speaking.
“Our daughter,” someone said.
A second cry followed.
Our son.
For a moment, I couldn’t understand how the world could contain both sounds.
Tears slid into my hair.
Roman bowed over my hand.
“They’re here,” he whispered.
The babies needed assessment and additional support because they had come early.
We were told what was happening.
We were told where they were going.
Nothing about the next hours felt easy.
But uncertainty no longer meant we had been abandoned inside it.
Later, when I was settled and the team said it was appropriate, Roman held our daughter.
A nurse guided him through the first positioning, then let him find his confidence.
His fingers rested against the blanket.
His head tilted toward the little sounds she made.
“Hello, Wren,” he whispered.
We had chosen her name together.
Our son was Ellis, after my grandfather.
Roman didn’t call either child a Dacre heir.
He called them by their names.
I watched him holding Wren and thought about the question in the examination room.
Are they mine?
They were his children.
They were also themselves.
He was beginning to understand the difference.
On the second night, when Ellis needed more time under observation and I began crying from exhaustion, Roman didn’t promise that his money could hurry anything.
He called the nurse when I asked.
He helped me understand the update.
He sat beside me while I missed a baby only a short distance away.
Days later, when both children were ready to leave, the hospital room became crowded with bags, blankets, and instructions we checked twice.
Roman stood beside the bassinets.
“Where would you like to go?” he asked.
My apartment was prepared.
So was the mansion.
Neither answer had been assumed.
I looked at him.
“Home,” I said.
His breath caught.
“Which one?”
I took his hand.
“The house by the lake. For now. Together.”
He didn’t turn the words into forever.
May you like
He kissed my knuckles.
Then he asked Elias to bring the car seats.
