The room is quiet. Eleanor sleeps in my arms, her face soft, her breathing even, her small fists pressed against my chest. I have been sitting here for hours, watching her, counting her breaths, memorizing the curve of her cheeks, the arch of her brows, the way her lips part slightly when she dreams. She is perfect. She is mine. The locket rests between us, the ring inside, the empty space beside it waiting for her photograph.Dr. Vance comes in at noon. She checks Eleanor's vitals, my vitals, the machines that have been monitoring us since the birth. She tells me everything looks good. She tells me I can go home tomorrow. She tells me the hospital board has approved my leave, six weeks, paid, the first time they have ever done that for a surgeon.I thank her. She smiles. She looks at Eleanor, at the way I hold her, at the locket around my neck. She says I am going to be a good mother.I tell her I am going to try.The door opens an hour later. Marcus. He is carrying yellow roses, bri
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