Robert Eleanor Thorne arrived on a snowy February morning, seven pounds three ounces, with a cry that could wake the dead and eyes the color of his father's.
"Perfect," Adrian whispered, holding his daughter—daughter, they'd been surprised to learn—for the first time. "Absolutely perfect."
Nancy watched them from her hospital bed, exhausted, elated, overwhelmed by love. "She has your hair."
"And your stubbornness. Did you see how she gripped my finger? Refused to let go?"
"That's not stubbornness. That's intelligence. Recognizing quality."
Adrian laughed, settling into the chair beside her bed, never releasing his hold on their child. "What should we call her? We planned for Robert."
"Eleanor Roberta," Nancy decided. "Ella, for short. After your mother, and mine. And my father, in the middle name."
"Ella." Adrian tried it out, smiling. "Hello, Ella. I'm your father. I'm going to make many mistakes, but I promise to love you completely. And to teach you that strength and kindness aren't opposites."
Ella yawned, unimpressed, and fell asleep in his arms.
Nancy closed her own eyes, letting the peace wash over her. They'd survived so much—scandal, separation, illness, obsession. And emerged not just intact, but multiplied. A family. A future.
"Adrian?"
"Mm?"
"Let's not have any more drama for a while. Just... normal life. Diapers and sleepless nights and first steps."
Adrian looked at her, at their daughter, at the life they'd built from ruins. "I promise nothing. But I'll try."
It was, Nancy knew, the most she could ask. And exactly enough.