We never thought we’d get here. For years, it had been just us. Seven years of chaos and comfort, of slow dancing in the kitchen, fights over the last slice of pizza and quiet, tender Sunday mornings. But then, something shifted.

It started small. A stroller in the window of a store. A dad holding his kid’s hand at the park. A baby giggling on some dumb commercial Eddie refused to admit made him emotional.

We danced around it for a while. The idea of a baby.

“You ever think about… I dunno. One of those tiny people?” Steve had asked one night, lying in bed, the ceiling fan spinning slow above us.

“Like… hobbits?”

“No, like babies, dumbass.”

That got a laugh. But a soft one. Not dismissive.

And suddenly we were talking about it. Really talking. We researched, we debated, we hesitated. Surrogacy felt right. Felt honest. Like a way to weave someone new into the love we’d already built.

The process was long. There were setbacks and paperwork and emotional days where we clung to each other tighter than usual. But then we met her—the woman who would carry you, our daughter. She was kind. Brave. She looked us in the eyes and said, “She’s going to be so loved, isn’t she?” And we didn’t even hesitate: “Yes.”

We bought the crib together, the one Steve insisted had to fit next to our bed. He put it together while Eddie made the playlist that would eventually become our lullaby collection. Eddie found this tiny, handmade blanket—black with little embroidered bats—because of course he did. “She’s gotta have a little bit of freak in her,” he’d said, and Steve rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop smiling.

We painted the nursery a warm, pale green. Neutral, soft. A place for dreaming. The walls are scattered with little shelves for books and toys. There’s a mobile with stars. We spent hours just sitting in there, trying to imagine the space filled with your sounds. Your scent.

Then came the phone call.

It was 3:17 a.m. The phone buzzed once, and we both sat up like a starter pistol had gone off.

“She’s in labor,” Steve said, eyes wide, voice shaking.

Eddie was already halfway to the closet. “Get dressed. Let’s go.”

We made it just in time. The hospital lights were sterile and unforgiving, but none of that mattered. We were in the room. We held her hand. We whispered thank you so many times the words lost their shape.

You came into this world screaming, a sound that shattered everything we thought we knew about love. The doctor held you up, and for a second everything stopped. Then they placed you in our arms. We both cried. Real, shaking sobs neither of us bothered to hide.

“Hi, baby,” Eddie whispered, voice breaking. “We’re your dads.”

Steve pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re here. You’re finally here.”

The nurses gave us time. We did skin to skin, held you close and let your imprint on us—your scent, your warmth, your weight. You calmed when we held you. Like you knew us.

We fed you your first bottle together, Eddie cradling you, Steve holding the bottle and brushing his fingers over your nose. We thanked the surrogate until our voices gave out. She smiled and said, “She’s yours now. Go be her home.”

Now, we’re in the elevator. Steve’s carrying the carrier, and Eddie is holding the diaper bag with a white-knuckled grip like it’s going to disappear. You’re fast asleep in your soft pink onesie, wrapped in the bat blanket.

We glance at each other. There’s a new weight in our chest, not heavy, but permanent. Something has shifted forever.

“Ready?” Steve asks.

Eddie exhales, then grins. “For everything.”

The elevator dings.

We walk out into the cool morning air, the sky just starting to pale with dawn. Our car waits. Our home waits. Our life—as three—begins now.