The last few weeks of the fall semester were brutal. We were in our early third trimester—big, uncomfortable, and constantly feeling the pressure of final exams alongside the literal pressure of two babies dropping lower every day. Walking across the vast Clark Atlanta campus, which had felt empowering in August, now felt like a marathon.
We relied entirely on each other. During one particularly stressful night of studying for the "Ethics" final, I was fighting off a wave of nausea while Kiara was weeping over a textbook, exhausted and overwhelmed.
"I can't do this, Kiana," she cried, rubbing her swollen feet. "I can't be a good student and a good mother."
I pushed my own books away and pulled her close on the sofa. "We're doing it, Ki. We're getting the grade, and we're getting the degrees. We survived a hell of a lot worse than this Social Work exam. We just need to get through these next three days. Then we rest."
We powered through. We used the financial freedom from the settlement to order food, we ignored the messy apartment, and we focused only on the papers and exams. Our professor, who knew our story, gave us a look of deep respect on the final day of the "Ethics" class.
Finally, the silence of the apartment was no longer the quiet of studying, but the peaceful sound of nesting. We spent the next week fully transforming the spare room into a beautiful, gender-neutral nursery. With the cribs Dad had installed and the mountain of clothes Layla had gifted, it was a warm, bright space brimming with hope.
On the last day before the official Christmas break, we sat on the living room sofa, watching a movie. My final grades posted that morning—a 3.5 GPA. Kiara's was a 3.6. We had done it. We had achieved academic success despite every barrier put in our way, and we hadn't let anyone's terrible secrets define our future.
We were officially on break, heavily pregnant, successful college students, and less than a month away from meeting our children. The journey had been long, but looking around our safe, comfortable apartment, we were ready for the next, most wonderful challenge.
****
The winter break was quiet, almost unnaturally so. Our apartment was a fortress of safety and anticipation. We had finished our exams, the nursery was stocked, and Dad and Layla were on standby, waiting for the call.
We were officially full-term, and every ache, every twinge, sent a nervous current through the apartment. We tried to distract ourselves by binge-watching old movies, but the babies seemed determined to steal the show with coordinated, forceful kicks.
It was just after midnight when the first, true signal arrived.
Kiara was getting a glass of water when I heard a surprised gasp and then a loud splash from the hallway.
"Kiara!" I shouted, scrambling off the sofa with the sluggish speed of a nine-month pregnancy.
I found her leaning against the wall, eyes wide, a puddle darkening the carpet around her feet. She looked at me, a mixture of shock and relief washing over her face. "My water broke, Kiana. It's time."
The pain wasn't immediate, but the urgency was. I helped her waddle back to the sofa, my mind racing through the hospital bag checklist.
"Okay. Okay. Breathe. I'm calling Dad. We're doing this," I was saying, trying to sound calm as I reached for my phone on the end table.
As I dialed, a sharp, searing cramp seized my abdomen. It wasn't the Braxton Hicks I'd been having for weeks; this was different. This was a contraction, and it demanded my full attention. I dropped the phone and instinctively grabbed the back of the sofa, letting out a low groan.
