De Todas Las Cosas Buenas: Usnavi X Mexican-American!Reader

°°Twenty-Nine°°

                                   One Week Later

       They've finally released me from the hospital. 'Rest and care', they said. Rest and care. Rest and care.

       They expect me to rest while my son is connected to five different machines that pump five different medicines and vaccines into his body. They expect me to rest while my son gonna be stuck in an incubator for God knows how long. They expects me to rest while my son is fighting for his life. Barely a week born and he's already battled much more things than many of us have.

       I visit him everyday. Fuck 'rest and care', I'm seeing my son one way or another. Usnavi has tried to keep me in bed. 'Our son is strong', he says. 'Don't cry', he says. 'It'll all go away eventually.' Bullshit.

°°°°°°°°°°

       The monitors and various machines around me and Usnavi beeped calmly, the nurses sitting on their fancy office chairs and sipping their coffee while the premature babies rely on the needles that had been dug into their skin to stay alive.

       The hairs on my arms were tinged white due to the alcohol induced soap that must be used before stepping into the ill-looking room. Usnavi held my hand tightly as we walked towards the incubator that held our son. The purple light that had been cast on him reflected on the incubator's windows, a small eye-mask covering his tiny, unopened eyes. A tiny sob escaped my lips; I buried my face into Usnavi's shirt.

       A nurse approached us, handing us two pairs of transparent gloves and a bottle of hand-sanitizer (which had an added ingredient to prevent skin damage). She explained to us how we should handle touching our son and then left. I shakily slipped on the gloves and covered them in a small amount of hand-sanitizer. Usnavi did the same.

       The opening to the incubator was opened by a nurse, who motioned for us to place our hands inside. The baby before us fidgeted when I gently touched his arm—a gasp freed itself from my voice box. My husband looked at me and smiled. "Nuestro hijo." [Our son]

       I responded with a low whimper. "Our son."

                                   Two Months Later

       The doctors have officially declared David a miracle. Yes, David: my son. A week ago they let me hold him for the first time, since his skin is no longer ultra-sensitive and jelly-like. You would not believe how small he is. His whole body is the size of the area between my neck and the start of my ribs. He's learning to eat by himself now, using a small contraption to help him, though.

       Every night, Usnavi grips my waist and kisses my neck, a large smile evident on his face. "We did it. He did it. Our son is gonna make it, Y/N."

       And every night, I turn to look at him and kiss his lips. "He's gonna make it."

                                   Two Months Later

       The stroller moved towards our car as we exited the hospital. A joyful, childish giggle rang through my ears. I turned towards Usnavi, kissing his lips as his hands place themselves on my waist. "We did it."

       My husband grinned as he looked into the stroller, a tiny baby staring at us with large amounts of curiosity hidden behind his large brown eyes. Usnavi pulled me closer to him. "He did it."

       "Yeah."

       Sometimes miracles can happen, whether it's being forgiven after an act that would be deemed unforgivable or witnessing the growth of a child that was born only a pound in weight, but they still exist. And at the time you need it most, those miracles appear in your life, changing it forever. You constantly thank whoever helped make this miracle happen—you will for all eternity.

       "One day, he'll blow us all away."