ZACHARY
I push the cart through Target, feeling like I'm walking through fog. It's been ten weeks since the twins were born, and while Jazz was able to come home after week three, Fatima's been in the hospital almost the entire time. She refuses to leave, says she needs to be there for the twins, even when she can't hold them. They're getting stronger every day, though. The doctors think they'll be able to come home soon, and that thought is what keeps me going.
I stop in the baby section, my mind half here and half back in that hospital room. The tiny onesies catch my eye—so small they could fit in my hand. I grab a few, unsure if they're the right size. Will they still be this small when they come home? Will they fit? I toss them into the cart anyway. Better to be prepared.
It's strange, being out here while Fatima stays by their side. I feel like I'm caught between two worlds. One where everything's normal—everyone is back in school and are very excited to see their baby siblings come home. I'm lowkey tired of waiting for our babies to come home, waiting for our family to feel complete again.
I walk past the diaper aisle and grab a few packs, then remember how fast we go through these with a newborn, let alone two. I double back and grab more. The cart's starting to fill up, but there's this nagging feeling that I'm forgetting something. Maybe it's just nerves.
I pull out my phone and check the time. Fatima's probably with the twins right now. She calls me every time she gets to hold one of them, her voice soft and full of love, even over the phone. I'll never forget the first time she called to tell me she finally got to hold them both at the same time. I could hear the tears in her voice, but I knew they were the good kind.
I can't wait for the day when I can hold them, too. When they're home, in our arms, without wires and machines reminding us how fragile they are.
As I head toward the checkout, my phone buzzes. It's a text from Fatima.
"They're doing better. Doctors said maybe another week or two."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Another week or two. That's not far at all. We're almost there. I text her back, telling her I'm picking up some more baby stuff and that I'll be at the hospital soon.
I look down at the cart, realizing I've grabbed way more than I planned. Blankets, tiny socks, bottles. But it doesn't matter. We'll need it all soon enough, and when that day comes, I want to be ready.
I just need to hold on a little longer. We both do.
As I started to push the cart towards the check out Fatima's name flashes on the screen, and I answer right away.
"Hey, babe," I say, my heart picking up speed.
"Zac," she says softly, her voice full of emotion. "I'm holding Harmony right now."
I freeze, my cart drifting forward without me. "You're holding her?"
"Yeah," she breathes. "She's off the ventilator. The only thing left is the NG tube. She's breathing on her own, Zac."
I take a deep breath, letting her words sink in. Harmony—our little fighter—breathing on her own. "That's incredible," I say, my voice catching. "How does she look?"
"She's perfect," Fatima whispers. "So peaceful, like she's finally comfortable. I've been waiting for this moment. She's getting stronger every day."
I feel a lump in my throat. "I wish I could be there."
"She's going to be okay," Fatima says, the relief clear in her voice. "We're almost there. Soon, they'll both be home."
I smile, imagining Harmony without all the tubes. "What about Cadence?"
