It started with a test strip.
A small line. Then another.
And then Ira running out of the bathroom, barefoot and wide-eyed, holding it like it was a holy relic.
"Daniel," she whispered, voice trembling. "I think—I'm pregnant."
Daniel froze. Then blinked. Then blinked again.
And then, all at once, joy exploded in his chest like fireworks.
He swept her up in his arms, spinning her around in their little living room.
"You're sure?"
"I took three. I have four more if we need emotional support."
They laughed, cried, laughed again.
---
The days that followed were a blur of doctor visits, vitamins, fruit cravings, mood swings, and Daniel becoming a walking-talking baby encyclopedia.
Ira glowed. And grew.
And grew some more.
"I look like a beach ball," she groaned one morning, eyeing her reflection.
"You look like the moon," Daniel said.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
He knelt down and kissed her belly. "Beautiful, round, glowing… and controlling the tides of my heart."
She burst out laughing. "You're lucky I can't chase you right now."
But Daniel didn't joke when it came to caring for her.
He cooked. He cleaned. He massaged her aching feet and tied her shoelaces when she couldn't bend. He even spoke to the baby every night, telling silly stories or singing lullabies in a terrible voice until Ira begged him to stop.
---
Months passed.
They decorated the baby's room — a soft pastel palette, little stars on the ceiling, and a mobile that played a soft tune when spun.
Ira's parents moved in during the final month to help out. The house was livelier, warmer, full of delicious smells and gentle teasing.
Then came the contractions.
---
The hospital room was sterile and bright.
Ira was trying to breathe through pain. Daniel was trying to remember how he was supposed to breathe.
He held her hand tightly, his own palm cold with sweat.
"You okay?" she whispered between clenched teeth.
He choked a laugh. "I should be asking you that."
Her grip tightened with a new wave of pain.
Daniel flinched but didn't let go.
"I'm scared," she finally said, eyes glassy.
He brought his forehead to hers. "Me too. But you're stronger than anyone I know."
---
Hours passed.
Screams. Breath. Push. The tension was suffocating.
Then—
A cry.
A loud, beautiful, perfect cry.
Daniel gasped. The nurse smiled, holding up a tiny, wriggling baby girl, red-faced and healthy. Ira sobbed, eyes wide, as Daniel kissed her forehead, shaking with emotion.
"She's… she's perfect," he whispered.
He took the baby carefully, as if she were made of glass and stardust. Walked over to Ira and gently placed her in her arms.
Ira stared down at the tiny face. "Hi there," she whispered, voice cracking. "Hi, my little one."
The baby yawned.
Daniel laughed through his tears and kissed both mother and child.
Just then, Ira's parents entered. Her mother gasped and rushed to the bedside, her father smiling with moist eyes.
They gathered around, a circle of love and warmth.
"We'll have to name her," Ira said, tired but glowing.
"I've got a few names," Daniel replied.
"Of course you do," she smiled.
They didn't settle on one that day.
Because for now, it didn't matter.
She was home.
They were home.
And as Daniel stood holding his wife and daughter, he knew—
This was the happiest he'd ever been.