Chris stood by the window, coffee untouched in his hands, watching the pale morning light stretch across the quiet Boston street. The house was still — almost too still — except for the faint hum of the heater and the sound of Dodger’s tail occasionally thumping against the floor.

“Chris,” his husband called softly from the kitchen doorway, “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep pacing like that.”

He turned, sheepish, a half-grin breaking through the nerves. “I know. I just… can’t believe it’s today.”

His husband crossed the room and gently took his hand, fingers intertwining in a way that calmed the storm inside him. “We’ve waited two years. Filled out endless forms. Cried over the phone when they told us it’d take longer. And now…” he smiled, eyes softening, “She’s finally coming home.”

Chris’s throat tightened. The weight of all the waiting — all the hoping — was heavy, but it was the good kind of heavy. The kind that reminded him of why it was all worth it.

When the knock came at the door, it felt like the whole house paused to breathe.

A woman from the agency stood there, smiling, bundled in a thick coat. And in her arms — a small bundle wrapped in a pink blanket. Chris froze. His husband’s breath caught beside him.

“This,” the woman said gently, “is Emma.”

The baby stirred, letting out the softest, sleepy sound. Her tiny fist peeked out from the blanket, grasping at nothing — or maybe, reaching for everything.

Chris’s eyes filled before he could stop them. “Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice trembling. His husband leaned in close, brushing a tear from Chris’s cheek before reaching out to hold their daughter for the first time.