Daphne’s POV
The alarm goes off at six AM, and for once, Xander and I wake up together. His hand finds mine in the pre-dawn darkness, squeezes once, and we both get up.
Hope's first medication dose is scheduled for six-thirty. We have thirty minutes to prepare.
In the nursery, I measure out the precise amount of diuretic while Xander prepares a bottle—Hope needs to eat immediately after taking her medication to avoid stomach upset. We move around each other with careful coordination, learning the choreography of this new routine.
"Point-five milliliters," I confirm, holding up the syringe so Xander can verify.
He checks it against the dosing chart Dr. Chen provided, nods. "Point-five. That's right."
I lift Hope from her bassinet. She's awake, blinking up at me with those dark eyes that look so much like Xander's. Her breathing is still faster than normal, but not as labored as yesterday. The medication is already helping.
"Okay, sweet girl," I murmur, cradling her in one arm while positioning the syringe with the other. "Medicine time."
Hope takes it without fussing—the liquid is unflavored, designed to be as palatable as possible for infants. I watch her swallow, counting to make sure she gets the full dose, then immediately hand her to Xander for the bottle.
He settles into the rocking chair, Hope tucked against his chest, and offers her the nipple. She latches immediately, hungry after the brief interruption. We both exhale slightly.
"One down," Xander says quietly.
"Three more today." I mark the dose on Lisa's chart—my five-year-old daughter made it last night with markers and ruler-straight lines, complete with times and checkboxes. "Six-thirty, twelve-thirty, six-thirty, twelve-thirty. Every six hours."
"We can do this."
The certainty in his voice makes something warm unfold in my chest. Not you or I—we.
For the first time since the hospital, we're working as a unified team instead of two people separately orbiting the same crisis.
By the time Hope finishes eating, the twins are awake. They appear in the nursery doorway in matching pajamas, hair sleep-mussed, eyes curious.
"Is it medicine time?" Nina asks, bouncing slightly on her toes.
"Just finished," I tell her, gesturing to the empty syringe on the changing table. "Hope took it like a champ."
"Can I help next time?" Nina's face is so earnest it makes my throat tight. "I could get the bottles from the counter. That's an important job."
Xander smiles at her over Hope's head. "That's a very important job. You can be the official bottle-getter."
Nina beams. Lisa steps forward, studying Hope's chart with the intensity she brings to everything.
"Will the medicine make Hope completely better?"
I exchange a glance with Xander. We discussed how to handle this question last night, lying in the dark talking about how much truth five-year-olds can handle.
"The medicine helps Hope's heart work better," I tell her carefully. "It makes it easier for her to breathe and eat and grow. But her heart will always need extra help. She'll probably take medicine like this for a very long time."
"Forever?" Nina's voice is small.
"We don't know yet," Xander says gently. "Maybe forever. Maybe until she has surgeries that fix some of the problems. The doctors are still figuring that out."
Lisa's fingers move, counting something only she can see. Then she asks the question I've been dreading: "Is Hope going to die?"
The words hang in the nursery, too big and terrible for a five-year-old to be asking.
Xander sets Hope's bottle aside and opens his arms. Both twins move to him immediately, and he pulls them close, one on each side. Hope remains cradled against his chest, and suddenly all three of our daughters are in his embrace.
"The doctors are doing everything they can to keep Hope healthy."
He tells them, voice steady despite the emotion I can hear underneath.
“Her heart has some problems, but we have medicine to help. And later, she'll have surgeries that will fix more things. Our whole family is going to take very good care of her."
"We'll help," Nina says fiercely. "I'll get all the bottles."
"And I'll make sure the chart is always right," Lisa adds, her hand coming to rest protectively on Hope's tiny foot.
I watch my family—all five of us together in the nursery, united around the sister who needs us—and feel something shift permanently in my chest.
This is what we are now. Not the family we planned to be, not the easy, uncomplicated life I imagined before Hope's diagnosis. But a family nonetheless, stronger for being tested.
The afternoon medication dose goes smoother.
Nina retrieves the bottle from the refrigerator with the seriousness of someone handling precious cargo. Lisa stands beside me, watching to make sure I measure exactly point-five milliliters. Xander holds Hope steady while I administer the dose.
We're a team, all of us.
Afterward, Xander takes Hope to the living room for tummy time while I start preparing dinner. The twins follow him, spreading blankets and toys around their baby sister like she's royalty requiring an elaborate court.
I'm chopping vegetables when I hear it—Hope making that small sound that means she's about to spit up. I drop the knife and rush to the living room, but Xander's already there, tilting her gently to the side so she doesn't choke.
The spit-up hits his shirt—expensive, definitely designer, probably dry-clean only. The kind of thing he used to change immediately if it got so much as a coffee stain.
He doesn't even flinch. Just wipes it off with a burp cloth and keeps rocking her, murmuring soft reassurances.
"Your designer clothes are finally getting real use," I say, and I'm smiling. Actually smiling.
Xander looks down at his ruined shirt, then back at me with a grin that transforms his whole face. "I've been waiting six years to be spit up on by all my daughters. Nina and Lisa were very stingy with their baby vomit."
"We were very polite babies," Lisa informs him seriously.
"The politest," he agrees.
I laugh. The sound startles me—a real laugh, from my belly, the kind I haven't heard from myself since before Hope was born. Maybe since before the pregnancy complications started.
Xander's eyes find mine across the living room, and I see surprise and something that looks like the beginning of healing.
It's just a moment, just a stupid joke about spit-up and ruined designer clothes. But it feels like more. It feels like normalcy breaking through the crisis, like we're still us, underneath all the fear and medical routines and heartbreak.
The twins giggle. Hope makes a contented sound against Xander's chest, her breathing slightly easier than it was this morning.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, I let myself believe we're going to be okay.
Not the okay we planned for. Not the easy, uncomplicated okay where everyone's healthy and nothing hurts.
But the harder, more meaningful okay where we face impossible things together and find moments of joy anyway.
That night, after Hope's final medication dose and all three girls are asleep, Xander and I end up on the couch. Not talking. Not planning. Just existing in the same space, his arm around my shoulders, my head on his chest.
"We did good today," he says quietly.
"We did." I press closer to him. "All of us."
His lips brush the top of my head, and I feel his smile against my hair.