Part One
People think fatherhood begins the day you hold your baby.
My husband believed that too.
I learned the hard way that it begins much earlier than that.
It begins much earlier than that.
My name is Nora, and after three failed rounds of treatment, one devastating miscarriage, and more negative tests than I ever let myself count out loud, I finally heard the words I'd nearly stopped hoping for.
"Congratulations, Nora." My doctor smiled, then glanced back at the screen. "And there's a second heartbeat."
Twins.
Two little girls.
Two little girls.
My husband, Colin, cried harder than I did. He kissed my forehead and laughed through actual tears, right there in the exam room.
"We're going to have so much fun, Mama Bear," he said.
I believed him completely.
He painted the nursery two shades of soft yellow. He assembled both cribs in a single Saturday and told everyone at his office he was going to be "the coolest dad in Fernwood."
But as the pregnancy went on, I noticed something.
Whenever Colin talked about becoming a father, he talked about it like a future event, something still safely off in the distance.
"Once the girls are here."
"When things get crazy."
I never corrected him. I told myself it was just how some people processed the idea of it — future tense, until it wasn't anymore.
I never corrected him.
By the seventh month, carrying twins felt like carrying an entire second household on my back. Colin helped whenever I asked directly. But his own life hadn't actually changed shape at all.
Golf on Saturdays.
Basketball leagues on Wednesdays.
Late dinners out with the same three friends he'd had since college.
His life hadn't really changed.
Meanwhile, my whole world had narrowed down to doctor's appointments, swollen ankles, and counting tiny kicks against my ribs at two in the morning.
At thirty-six weeks, my obstetrician studied the ultrasound for a long moment before turning toward both of us.
"The girls look wonderful." He paused. "But Baby B is still breech."
He walked us through it carefully. A scheduled C-section. A recovery that would take real weeks, not days. No lifting. No driving. No stairs unless absolutely necessary.
Then he looked directly at Colin.
"She's going to need a lot of help."
She's going to need a lot of help.
Colin nodded immediately. "I've got her, Doc."
The doctor smiled. I finally let my shoulders drop.
Four days later, Colin walked into the kitchen holding his phone with the biggest grin I'd seen in weeks.
