Xander’s POV
Daphne's been up since four, unable to sleep, and by noon she's moving like someone underwater—slow, exhausted, carrying weight that has nothing to do with pregnancy.
I find her staring at the nursery walls we painted weeks ago, one hand resting on her belly, the other gripping the doorframe like she needs it to stay upright.
"I'm taking the twins to the park," I tell her, making the decision before she can protest. "You need to rest. Actually rest, not just lie down and stare at the ceiling."
She turns to look at me, opens her mouth to argue.
"Daphne, please." I cross to her, press a kiss to her forehead. "Let me handle this. One afternoon. You need to sleep more than you need to supervise playground equipment."
For a moment I think she'll fight me on it. But then something in her face softens, gives way. She rises on her toes, presses a quick kiss to my lips—gratitude and surrender wrapped into one brief touch.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I gather the twins. Nina bounces ahead toward the car, already chattering about the swings. Lisa follows at her measured pace, counting her steps under her breath.
The park is half-empty on a Tuesday afternoon—mostly nannies with toddlers, a few scattered parents who work from home or have flexible schedules.
Nina races for the swings immediately, her excitement a bright spot in a day that's felt gray since I woke up. I push Lisa on the merry-go-round, watching her face as the world spins past.
She doesn't smile the way Nina does—Lisa's pleasure is quieter, more internal, but I see it in the way her grip loosens on the handles, the way her shoulders drop from their usual tense position.
Nina circles back after ten minutes, her enthusiasm already fading into something more somber. She climbs onto the merry-go-round beside her sister, waiting until it slows to a stop before speaking.
"Daddy?" Her voice is small, uncertain. "Why might the baby be sick?"
The question lands like a fist to my sternum. I've been preparing for this conversation, rehearsing answers in my head during sleepless nights.
But none of my careful preparations matter now that Nina's looking at me with eyes that expect honesty.
I crouch to her level, putting myself at eye height with both my daughters.
"Sometimes when babies are growing, their hearts don't form exactly right. It's something that happens during development—just biology. It's not because of anything anyone did."
Nina's face scrunches up, processing. Then, voice even smaller: "Is it because Mommy did something wrong?"
The words hit harder than anything I was prepared for. My five-year-old daughter is looking for someone to blame, trying to make sense of senseless biology by finding fault.
And she's landed on her mother—the person who's been carrying this fear like a second pregnancy, who wakes up at four in the morning terrified she's somehow failing a daughter she hasn't even met yet.
"No." I make my voice firm, absolute. "Nina, listen to me. This is not Mommy's fault. It's not anyone's fault. Sometimes things just happen in ways we can't control or predict. The baby's heart just grew differently than most hearts do, that's all."
Lisa stops the merry-go-round with her foot, the metal grinding to a halt. Her dark eyes fix on me with the intensity that always makes her seem older than five.
"If the baby dies," she says with the brutal logic only children possess, "will you try again for another one?"
The question is so matter-of-fact, so devoid of emotion, that for a moment I can't process it.
Then it hits me what she's actually asking—if their sister is replaceable. Like a broken toy, like something that can be swapped out if the first version doesn't work.
Something cracks in my chest—not cleanly, but in jagged pieces that don't fit back together the same way.
My daughters are trying to prepare themselves for loss. Building contingency plans with the limited emotional vocabulary five-year-olds possess.
They're already calculating survival strategies for grief they haven't experienced yet. They're five years old, and they're planning for their sister's death.
I pull them both close, gathering them against my chest. Nina comes willingly, burrowing into my shoulder.
Lisa is stiffer, less comfortable with physical affection, but she doesn't pull away. I feel their small bodies pressed against me, warm and solid and alive.
"Listen to me, both of you." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"No matter what happens with the baby—and we're hoping very, very hard that she's going to be okay—you will always be my girls. You're not replaceable. She's not replaceable. Every person in our family matters. Do you understand?"
The words feel inadequate, hollow, like I'm trying to fill an ocean with a teaspoon. But they're all I have.
Nina nods against my shoulder. Lisa's "okay" is quiet, uncertain, like she's agreeing to believe me even though her calculating mind sees the holes in my logic.
We stay at the park for another thirty minutes. Nina returns to the swings but without her earlier enthusiasm. Lisa draws patterns in the sand with a stick, creating complex geometric designs that follow rules only she understands.
I watch them both and think about how desperately I want to protect them from this. From uncertainty and grief and the devastating reality that sometimes wanting something with your whole heart isn't enough to make it true.
On the drive home, Nina's voice comes from the backseat. Small and scared and trying not to be.
"Daddy? Are you scared too?"
I meet her eyes in the rearview mirror. See the fear there, poorly hidden beneath five-year-old bravado. See her needing something from me that I haven't been giving.
The truth.
"Yes." The admission costs me, but it feels necessary. "I'm very scared. The baby might be sick, and that scares me. Mommy being sad scares me. Not knowing what's going to happen scares me."
Silence from the backseat. Then Lisa's voice, quiet but certain, like she's stating something obvious that adults have somehow forgotten: "That's okay. We can all be scared together."
My vision blurs. I blink hard, force my eyes to focus on the road, on the yellow line dividing the lanes, on anything except the way my throat has closed around words I can't speak.
My five-year-old daughter has just given me permission to be human, to be vulnerable. To share the weight instead of carrying it alone.
She's offering me what I've been trying to give them—the understanding that fear doesn't make you weak, that being scared together is better than being brave alone.
Sometimes wisdom comes from the smallest voices.
"Yeah," I manage, my voice rough. "Yeah, we can do that."