Bella. I stood in the nursery, rocking our daughter gently as she drifted off to sleep. At three months old, Lily Grace Greyson already had her fathers wrapped around her tiny finger. She had Alex's dark hair and serious expression, but Nick's easy smile. And she had all three of us completely, utterly besotted. The nursery walls were painted a soft lavender, decorated with the abstract paintings I'd created during my pregnancy—swirls of purple, gold, and silver that represented the love that had created this precious life. One of Nick's photographs, a stunning black and white image of Alex and me laughing together, hung above the changing table. We'd built this room together, each of us contributing something that made it uniquely ours. "Is she asleep?" Nick whispered from the doorway, his voice soft with wonder. Even after three months, he still looked at Lily like she was a miracle. I nodded, carefully placing her in the crib adorned with the handmade quilt Margaret had stitch
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