Invisible String

11

The sun was just beginning to rise over the city, casting a soft glow on the hospital parking lot as we stepped outside. I cradled Mira close to my chest, her little hat snug on her head, while Travis carried the diaper bag and held the door for me. Discharge papers in hand, emotions tucked just under the surface, we were leaving the hospital not as two, but as three.

I couldn’t stop looking at her. I must have checked a dozen times that the straps in the car seat were perfect, tugging gently to be sure she was snug but not too tight. Mira was sound asleep, her tiny fists curled by her face like she was still tucked safely inside the womb.

A nurse and a hospital car seat technician met us at the car, clipboard in hand. The technician crouched beside the back seat, double-checking Travis’s earlier install with the care of someone who did this every day. I stood nearby, swaying a little from exhaustion, nerves, and something else—something sacred.

“Looks great,” the woman finally said, smiling up at us. “Just a note—once she hits twenty-two pounds, you’ll need to switch to using the anchor strap to recline it at a safer angle for her spine and airway. But for now, it’s perfect.”

Travis nodded. “Got it. Twenty-two pounds. We’ll keep an eye on it.”

Behind us, two hospital security guards stood watch—an odd but not surprising presence, given who we were. Travis had quietly requested extra security the night before, just in case. Not because we expected anything bad, but because protecting our daughter had already become second nature. The guards offered a small wave and a nod of recognition, but kept their distance.

I gently kissed Mira’s forehead before lowering her into the seat. It felt like I was placing a piece of my soul in a bucket seat with fabric buckles and foam padding. We both stood back and stared for a minute.

“She looks so small,” I whispered.

“She is,” Travis said. “But she’s ours.”

He slid into the driver’s seat, glancing back at her every few seconds in the rearview mirror. I crawled into the backseat, not wanting to be even a foot away. I needed to see her chest rise and fall. I needed to smell her skin.

I leaned my head on the car window, the quiet hum of the car filling the space as we pulled out of the hospital lot. The gates opened, the guards waved again, and the world outside suddenly seemed… different. We weren’t just heading home.

We were heading into the next chapter—with our daughter safely strapped in, finally real.

Just as we merged onto the highway, the quiet hum in the car was interrupted by a sharp ding through the speakers. Travis glanced at the screen on the dash—Tree —and tapped the steering wheel to answer.

The car filled with Tree’s cheerful voice, “Hey, just checking in to see when you guys are—”

Before she could finish, Mira let out a startled, sharp wail from her car seat. The sudden noise from the speakers must’ve spooked her. I twisted around in my seat immediately, my heart skipping a beat.

“It’s okay, baby,” I cooed softly, already digging through the diaper bag. “Just a noise, just a noise…”

I grabbed one of the pacifiers we had shoved into the side pocket—the first brand we tried at the hospital. She took it for a second… then promptly spat it out with an offended grunt.

“Oh no no no,” I muttered, panic bubbling up in my chest. Travis kept driving, glancing in the rearview mirror, trying to stay calm while clearly wanting to pull over.

“Everything okay?” Tree’s voice echoed again through the speaker, now quieter—cautious.

I found the other pacifier, the newer one we’d grabbed on our frantic Target run yesterday. I popped it into Mira’s mouth, praying silently. She latched. Sucked. Calmed.