Nico had this special way of noticing what others would miss.
The way she always forgot her water bottle.
The way her shoulders tensed in waiting rooms.
The way she left her questions scattered on scraps of paper.
So he wrote things down for her.
Blood pressure numbers,
The midwife's advice,
A grocery list with a few things scribbled down,
Apples,
Avocado,
Sourdough,
Cranberries.
In the evenings,
He'd arrive and cook for her.
What he remembered used to be her favorites.
Lemony soup,
Roasted chicken and potatoes,
Mixed greens.
They ate at the table with their phones face down,
Smelling the apple-cranberry crumble in the oven.
They began to stitch their days together in small,
Ordinary ways.
Saturday mornings at the market,
Where Nico carried the heavier bag without making a point of it.
Morning walks along the river.
Quiet evenings after dinner where he'd read a book out loud,
His voice comforting her as sleep pulled at her.
At night,
They'd speak openly.
Today I almost called you around noon,
Just to ask you something,
But really,
I just wanted to hear your voice.
It was all the little things that were building up.
Groceries carried in,
Tea set on the bedside table,
Her hand finding his in the dark.
And somehow,
Those small things held more weight than any promise ever could.
This feels like family,
Lauren said once,
Surprised by her own voice.
Just not the shape I'd imagined.
Nico looked up and held her gaze.
Maybe families don't have to look the way we were taught.
Maybe they just have to be there in moments that matter.
His voice landed in her chest like warmth,
Spreading outward,
Simple and solid.
Later that night,
After the dishes were stacked and the crumble was cooling on the counter,
Lauren lay in bed with one hand over her belly.
She thought about all the broken shapes she'd grown up with.
Her mom's silence,
Her dad's absence,
The ache that had carved itself into her as a child.
She considered the contrast of Nico reading aloud until her eyes closed,
Of his lists and his cooking and the steadiness of his presence.
It didn't erase the past,
But it began to rewrite what she imagined family could be.
She fell asleep,
Thinking about how healing had crept through these very small everyday gestures,
These choices to stay,
To notice,
To show up,
Again and again.
She knew she was still carrying grief and guilt and questions without answers,
But right alongside them was this new thing,
This growing sense of safety that felt like a beautiful foundation for her child to grow in.
As she drifted towards sleep,
Lauren whispered into the dim room more to herself than to Nico.
Whatever comes,
However things work out,
I just want our baby to feel love.
And for the first time in a long time,
She believed it.
