Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 183

Xander’s POV

Thirty weeks. The baby's movements have decreased noticeably.

What used to be constant kicks and rolls—Daphne's complaints about ribs being bruised, about Hope doing gymnastics at three in the morning—have become sporadic. Weaker. Like she's conserving energy for something we can't see.

The doctors are monitoring closely. Daily appointments now instead of weekly. Non-stress tests that measure Hope's heart rate and movement patterns.

Doppler ultrasounds that assess blood flow through her compromised cardiovascular system.

They're discussing induction at thirty-two weeks if things don't improve. Two more weeks to give Hope the best chance at survival outside the womb. Two more weeks that we're not sure we have.

Every appointment feels like negotiating for time that's slipping through our fingers.

Daphne obsessively prepares the nursery. I watch her fold tiny clothes—onesies and sleepers and outfits sized for a newborn who might never wear them.

She arranges stuffed animals on shelves with precise care. Assembles furniture with the twins' help, Nina holding screws while Lisa reads instructions with the seriousness of an engineer.

She's building a room for a daughter who might never sleep in it, and I don't know if the preparation is hope or denial.

Don't know if we're creating a space for Hope to come home to, or a memorial to a life that will only exist inside these walls.

I don't say this, just help hang curtains and position the crib where morning light will hit it just right. Pretend we're normal parents preparing for a normal birth instead of parents building a shrine to possibility.

Nina stands in the doorway watching us arrange the final pieces. The mobile Daphne ordered—soft animals that spin slowly when wound, playing a lullaby that makes my chest ache.

"Will she look like us?" Nina's voice is small, uncertain. "The baby. Will she have our eyes?"

Daphne pauses mid-adjustment, her hand rests on the crib rail. "Maybe. Probably. You and Lisa have Daddy's eyes, so she might too."

"But what if she doesn't open them?" Nina's question is brutally direct. "What if she dies before we see what color they are?"

The room goes silent. Even Lisa stops organizing the bookshelf to turn and look at her sister.

Daphne lowers herself into the rocking chair we positioned near the window. Slowly. Carefully. Her belly makes graceful movement impossible.

"Come here." She gestures to both girls.

They approach cautiously. Nina climbs into Daphne's lap—awkward now with the belly between them. Lisa stands beside the chair, one hand on the armrest.

"If she doesn't open her eyes," Daphne says quietly, "we'll still know she was here. We'll still have held her. We'll still have loved her for however long we got."

"But it won't be enough." Nina's voice cracks. "It won't be enough time."

"No." Daphne strokes Nina's hair. "It won't. There's no amount of time that would feel like enough. But we take what we get and we're grateful for it anyway."

Lisa's hand tightens on the armrest. "After the surgeries, if she survives, will she be able to come home? Or will she live in the hospital?"

The question is so practical, so Lisa, but it hits like a sledgehammer. My five-year-old is already calculating the logistics of her sister's survival. Already planning for a life lived in ICU rooms and visiting hours.

"We hope she can come home eventually." Daphne's voice stays steady but I can see the effort it costs. "But yes, she'll probably be in the hospital for a while first. Weeks, maybe months."

"So we're making this room for someday." Lisa's observation is clinical. "Not for now. For whenever she's strong enough."

"Yes."

"Or for never." Nina adds quietly. "If she doesn't get strong enough."

Daphne pulls Nina tighter, reaching for Lisa's hand. "Or for never. But we're hoping for someday, that's why we're building it. That's why we're choosing colors and hanging mobiles and folding clothes. Because hope means acting like the future we want is possible."

I watch my daughters process this through their five-year-old philosophies. Watch them try to reconcile preparation with uncertainty, hope with the very real possibility of loss.

The nursery sits around us, complete now. Ready for a baby who might never use it. For someday. Or for never. We don't know which.

That night, I'm pulled from sleep by Daphne's hand gripping my arm. Her fingers dig in hard enough to leave marks. My eyes fly open to find her face pale in the darkness, twisted with something that makes my blood run cold.

"Xander." Her voice is tight, controlled—the tone she uses when she's terrified but trying not to panic. "Call the doctor."

I'm already sitting up, already reaching for my phone on the nightstand. "What's wrong?"

"Something's wrong." Her other hand presses against her belly. "The cramping—it's not normal. It's rhythmic. Getting stronger."

My heart stops. "How long?"

"Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty." Her breath catches. "I thought it was just Braxton Hicks at first but it's not stopping. It's intensifying."

I'm dialing before she finishes speaking. My hands shake so badly I almost drop the phone. The after-hours line rings once, twice, three times.

"And Hope," Daphne's voice breaks. "She's not moving. At all. She was moving this afternoon but now there's nothing."

The nurse answers. I'm already talking, giving Daphne's information, explaining the symptoms—cramping, rhythmic contractions, decreased fetal movement.

My voice sounds disconnected from my body. Like someone else is speaking with my mouth.

The nurse's response is immediate. "Bring her in. Now. Don't wait."

I'm already moving, pulling on clothes, finding Daphne's overnight bag that's been packed for weeks in anticipation of this moment.

The moment we knew was coming but hoped would come later. When we were ready. When Hope had more time.

Daphne stands beside the bed, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to her belly. Her breathing goes shallow, controlled, counting through a contraction I can see rippling across her abdomen.

"We need to wake Mom," she says when it passes. "Someone needs to stay with the girls."

I text Margaret while helping Daphne into clothes that barely fit anymore. Tell her we're going to the hospital, need her to watch the twins. She responds immediately—on her way to our room.

We're out of time. The pregnancy we've been fighting to extend, the two more weeks we were hoping for, the careful countdown to thirty-two weeks—it's ending. Right now. Whether we're ready or not.

Daphne's body is making decisions without consulting the calendar.

Margaret appears in our doorway, hair disheveled, still in her robe. Takes one look at Daphne's face and understands immediately.

"Go." She waves us toward the door. "I've got the girls. Just go."

The drive to the hospital takes twelve minutes that feel like hours. Daphne breathes through contractions that are coming faster now. Five minutes apart. Four. Her hand grips mine so tight I lose feeling in my fingers.

Hope hasn't moved once. We're running out of time. Maybe we already have.

The pregnancy we fought for, the daughter we hoped would make it to thirty-two weeks—she's coming at thirty. Ten weeks early, small and weak and fighting with a heart that was never built to sustain life.

I pull into the emergency entrance. Daphne's already opening her door before I've fully stopped.

A nurse appears with a wheelchair. Everything moves fast and slow simultaneously—rushed procedures and careful questions and the controlled chaos of a hospital preparing for a crisis delivery.

They wheel Daphne away. I follow, hold her hand through another contraction that makes her cry out despite her efforts to stay quiet.

The doctor appears—the same one who's been monitoring Hope for weeks. His face is professionally calm but I can see the tension in his jaw.

"Let's see where we are," he says, already moving to examine Daphne.

I watch him work, watch the careful efficiency of his movements, the practiced calm of someone who's done this a thousand times before. He has the confidence of expertise, the surety that comes from years of managing crises just like this one.

And I have nothing. I look at Daphne's face, see her trying to stay calm, trying to breathe through the pain and the fear. And I envy the doctor for his professional detachment.

I can't bear to have confidence right now. Can't summon the belief that this will be okay. All I can do is hold Daphne's hand and brace for the worst while the doctor does his work with a certainty I wish I could share.