Emily was driving like there was a crystal chandelier strapped to the roof.

“Babe,” you said for the third time in four blocks, “can you please slow down?”

“I’m already ten under,” she muttered, both hands white-knuckled on the wheel. “If I go any slower, we’ll get pulled over for suspicious behavior.”

You groaned—not at her, but at the jolt of pain that shot through your abdomen as the car rolled over a barely-there bump in the road. C-section recovery was a special kind of hell. You felt like you were being held together with gauze and sarcasm. The seatbelt felt too tight. The world felt too loud.

“Henry hates this,” you mumbled, glancing down at the tiny, wrinkled human squirming in his car seat beside you. His face was scrunched up, red and furious, making wet little snuffling sounds that warned of an impending wail.

“He really hates it,” Emily agreed. “We’ll be home soon, I promise.”

“He’s going to cry.”

“He’s a baby,” she said gently. “Crying is kind of his thing now.”

You bit back a sigh. You were too sore to argue properly, and too sleep-deprived to be reasonable. “Everything hurts.”

“I know,” Emily said quietly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

You felt guilty immediately. She was trying. She hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time since you’d gone into labor four days ago, and she’d done everything—everything—without complaint. The late-night feedings. The hospital paperwork. The way she’d kept vigil beside your bed after the C-section, holding your hand while you drifted in and out of a morphine haze.

Still, neither of you had the patience of saints.

By the time you pulled into your neighborhood, Henry was wailing in earnest. You winced with every scream. Emily looked like she might cry herself.

But eventually—mercifully—you were home.

She parked in the driveway, and you didn’t even wait for her to come around before you unbuckled yourself. “Don’t lift me,” you warned as she opened the door. “I’m fine. I can do it.”

“You’re literally not fine,” she murmured, bracing a hand behind your back anyway as you slowly, painfully slid out of the car. “But okay.”

You shuffled toward the house, one arm cradling your belly and the other cradling the handle of the car seat. Emily unlocked the door, pushed it open—and stopped short.

“Oh…”

You looked past her.

There, in the front hallway, was a small pile of gifts. Blankets. Nursing pads. Soft robes. Slippers. Epsom salts. A dozen thoughtful things clearly meant for you, not the baby.

And beside them, a cooler bag labeled “Meals – Please refrigerate!” in Garcia’s unmistakable handwriting. You could smell something garlicky and amazing from inside.

JJ had to be the one who organized it all. Only another mother would’ve known you’d need this much self-care to even begin functioning. Only JJ would think to put everyone’s names on the tags.

Your throat tightened.

Emily stepped aside and let you inside, then set the car seat gently by the couch. Henry was still sniffling, but quieter now.

And then—without a word—she handed you a small, wrapped box.

You blinked at it. “What’s this?”

“Push present,” she said. “Even if you didn’t technically do any pushing. I mean—cutting open your abdomen to bring our son into the world? I feel like that still counts.”

Your lip trembled. “Em…”

“Don’t cry, or I’ll cry, and then the baby will cry, and we’ll all just be a puddle.”

You opened it carefully.

Inside was a delicate necklace—your birthstone, Henry’s, and hers, all on a thin gold chain. Simple. Elegant. Utterly you.