Invisible String

46

Our baby boy.

It starts as a soft fuss, that little grumbly newborn sound, and then turns into a full-out wail. I automatically reach out, instinct kicking in before my brain even has time to process it.

But before I can stand, Travis is already on his feet. He puts a hand gently on my shoulder, guiding me right back down to the edge of the bed.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice calm but firm, “crying won’t hurt him. You get dressed.”

I blink up at him, unsure. “But—he needs—”

“I got him,” Travis cuts in, already heading toward the bassinet. “You’ve done enough, Tay. Way more than enough. Let me handle him for a minute.”

I watch as he leans down, scooping our son into his arms with such care, like he’s holding something sacred. The baby’s still wailing, his face scrunched and red, fists flailing like the world is ending. But Travis doesn’t flinch.

“It’s okay, little man,” he murmurs, rocking him gently, pressing a kiss to his tiny forehead. “Mama needs a second.”

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming tenderness of it all. The way Travis stands there barefoot in sweats, our baby cradled against his chest, bouncing just slightly as he hums something tuneless but comforting—it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I wipe my eyes and slowly start pulling on the rest of my clothes, finally letting myself take a breath. I don’t have to do everything. Not when he’s right here. Not when we’re in this together.

I sit there for a second, robe hanging open as I stare at the two of them—Travis swaying gently with our son in his arms, whispering to him like they’ve known each other forever. I’m frozen, overwhelmed by love, exhaustion, and the quiet realization that I don’t have to be the strong one every second.

“See?” Travis says softly to the baby. “You just wanted to remind everyone you’re the boss around here, huh?”

The crying starts to ease a little, his tiny body settling into Travis’s broad chest like it’s the only place he ever wants to be. And honestly, I get it. I’d curl up there too if I could.

I finally tug on a clean pair of soft joggers and a nursing tank, feeling a little more human with every layer. Still sore, still bleeding, still swollen in every place imaginable—but at least I’m not half-naked anymore.

Travis glances over his shoulder, his voice quiet but teasing. “Look at you. Wearing clothes and everything.”

I let out a breathy laugh and sink back onto the edge of the bed, resting my hands on my knees. “Barely. They don’t exactly design postpartum fashion for runway moments.”

He turns to face me fully, still rocking our son with that easy rhythm, and his eyes soften like they always do when he’s about to say something that’ll undo me.

“You just gave birth to a whole human being,” he says. “You could wear a paper bag and I’d still think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

I drop my head, cheeks burning, because he means it. I can tell. And I don’t know what I did to deserve someone who looks at me like that when I’m bleeding and stitched up and barely holding myself together.

Travis steps closer, lowers himself beside me with the baby still cradled on his chest. Our little boy has drifted into a sleepy sigh, mouth hanging open, hand curled against his dad’s shirt.

“You want him?” Travis asks gently.

I nod, reaching for him with steady arms this time. “Yeah. I do.”