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“Sh, sh, sh,” his breath comes exasperated as he paces back and forth in the living room with the baby in his arms. Nothing would soothe her. No food, no pacing, no music. She’s relentless. She’s not sick, isn’t she? She doesn't look sick, her face is warm but from all the aggravation she’s putting herself through.
His arms ache. He hasn’t eaten since lunch. He doesn’t even remember if he brushed his teeth.
It all happened so fast…
One day, when he was out of the country, Braxton got a call from a woman he hooked up with about a year ago to tell him that she was pregnant. By the time he got back she’d already given birth, and before he could wrap his head around it, there was a two-week infant on his door with nothing more than a carrier, a diaper bag and a note.
Braxton drags a hand down his face, eyes bloodshot and shoulders tight. “Come on, kid,” he murmurs, bouncing her a little more. “I don’t know what you want. I pick you up, you cry. I put you down, you cry. I feed you, you cry. I… You gotta tell me what’s wrong.”
As if on cue, her tiny fists flail, and she lets out a sharper wail that pierces through the thin apartment walls.
The knock at the door comes a minute later. He almost doesn’t hear it over the screaming.
Braxton freezes. The baby lets out another angry complaint, squirming against his chest like she’s personally offended by the interruption.
Another knock. More gentle this time.
He cracks the door open, expecting a pissed-off neighbor ready to complain. Instead, he finds you there wearing a faded t-shirt, a baby monitor in hand, and a calm, practiced look in your eye that says this isn’t your first midnight wake-up.
“Hey,” you say, soft and cautious, glancing at the baby. “Braxton, right?”
He nods.
“I live next door. 4B. I heard the baby crying, and I thought…” You hesitate. “Is everything okay?”
Braxton blinks at you. He doesn’t know you. He’s seen you in the hallway once or twice, maybe hauling a stroller or with a toddler clinging to your leg. But tonight you look like a lifeline.
“I don’t know… I think she’s broken,” he says hoarsely, and to his own horror, his voice cracks. He hadn’t realized how close to the edge he really was until someone looked at him like he was about to have a full breakdown.
You offer a small, warm smile. “She’s not broken. Just tired. And probably picking up on your mood.”
He steps aside before he fully processes it, letting you into the apartment like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You walk in barefoot and unbothered by the chaos—a bottle on the counter, a half-folded blanket on the couch, a mountain of wipes and diapers abandoned mid-trial.
“Can I try?” you ask, motioning to the baby after putting the monitor down on the table.
Without thinking, he hands her over. She fusses a little at the transition, but you hum under your breath, soft and steady, and shift her into your arms with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
“Hey, sweet girl,” you coo, walking toward the couch, and settling her down carefully. “Babies 101, you need to swaddle them tighter. Like a little burrito. She’s probably flailing herself awake. Babies don’t develop a sense of freedom until they’re older. They like to be snuggled like this.”
Braxton watches as you pull the blanket tight around the baby with practiced hands, tucking her in until only her round face is showing. Her cries taper off to whimpers, then hiccups. You keep humming as you rock her slowly, side to side.
“How old is she?”
“Two weeks,” Braxton mutters, collapsing onto the arm of a chair. “She’s been crying for hours, I fed her. Changed her. I thought maybe she was sick, but then I thought maybe she hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” you say gently, checking her temperature with the back of your hand. “She’s just… new. And you’re new. And it’s a lot for both of you.”
“She wasn’t supposed to be here.” His voice cracks again, quieter this time. “Her mom just… dropped her off three days ago. Said she couldn’t do it.”
You glance at him, eyes softening. “You’re doing a lot better than you think.”
“I don’t even know if I should keep her.”
You nod, understanding. “That’s okay. You don’t have to decide that tonight.”
He looks down at his hands. “She doesn’t deserve to be passed around like a burden.”
“No,” you agree. “She doesn’t. But you also don’t have to figure it out overnight. You’re exhausted. She’s exhausted. Give yourself a minute.”
The baby finally lets out a shuddering sigh and settles against your chest, breathing slow and even.
Braxton watches her, watches you. “How do you make it look so easy?”
“Lots of practice,” you smile. “I’ve got two of these.”
He swallows hard. “Thanks for coming over.”
You nod, standing to pass the baby back into his arms. He’s stiff with nerves, but this time she stays quiet, tucked against his chest. “She likes your heartbeat. She already knows it.”
Braxton stares down at her, overwhelmed and oddly calm at the same time.
“Hey,” you say softly, opening the door. “Knock on my door if you need anything. I’ll probably be up anyway.”
“4B, right?”
You nod. “Night, Braxton.”
“Night.”
The door shuts quietly behind you, and Braxton stands in the middle of the room, baby girl in his arms, breathing in time with her tiny chest. Not fixed. Not figured out. But not alone anymore.
The apartment was quiet for the first time in what felt like forever.
Braxton didn’t remember falling asleep, just the feeling of his daughter’s warm, sleeping weight on his chest and the low hum of the air conditioner in the background. She woke up once for feeding at three or four in the morning. He changed her, and swaddled her back like you showed him. It was the first time she didn’t cry. She fussed for a brief second and went back to sleep almost immediately.
When he blinks awake, the early morning light is bleeding through the blinds, and she’s still out, swaddled and serene, like she hasn’t spent most of the night screaming her lungs out.
He shifts carefully, moving her to the bassinet for the first time in the last 12 hours.
She stirs but doesn’t wake. He watches her for a moment before closing the blinds.
Glancing around the mess of the apartment, he doesn't know what to tackle first. Maybe himself. He should take a shower before she wakes up. Growing up under the military regime of his father gave him the skill of showering under two minutes, and that’s what he does. Though he would rather take a bath with salts, it’s not an option right now. After putting some comfortable clothes on, he starts tidying the place up.
He’s in the middle of it when a knock comes to his door. He opens it to find you standing there again, this time dressed for the day, with a baby wrapped to your chest, another little guy hiding behind your legs and a full grocery bag in your hand.
“I figured you might still be running on fumes,” smiling, you lift the bag slightly. “Thought I’d bring you some supplies.”
He steps aside wordlessly, letting the three of you invade his place.
You set the bag on the counter and start pulling things out. Diapers, wipes, burp cloths, formula, a different brand than the half-empty tub sitting by the sink. A clean pacifier in its package.
“I saw you had that cheap off-brand formula. Technically it’s okay, but it’s a bit harsh for newborns. And that one’s for six months and up.” You gestured to his half-used canister. “This one’s gentler on the stomach. ”
Braxton scratches the back of his neck. “I just grabbed whatever I saw first. Had no idea there were different kinds.”
You shrugged. “No one tells you until it’s screaming at you at three in the morning.”
He almost smiled at that. Almost.
“Anyway,” you continued, “I didn’t want to overstep, but I just figured. I didn’t have help the first time around,” you glance at your three-year-old who is curiously going around the couch, inspecting the place, “and the second one either,” then you glance at the baby blissfully resting in the carrier wrapped around your chest. “I wish someone would have knocked on my door just one time.”
“I…” speechless, he just nods again.
“Oh, and he picked up a little toy for her. Show him, Dex,” you call your oldest who just puts his hand up to show the soft rattle with a bunny shape.
“Where's the baby?” Asks Dex.
“She’s probably still asleep. Isn’t she?” You glance at Braxton.
“Moved the bassinet to my room. You wanna see her?” He asks your boy.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to…”
“It’s okay. He brought her a gift.” He motions towards the room at the end of the hallway. “Come this way.”
“You have to be really quiet, okay?” you grab Dex’s hand and follow Braxton into the bedroom.
You lift your son slightly over the edge of the bassinet so he can see the baby girl sleeping peacefully.
“She’s small.” He watches her closely.
“She’s tiny. That’s how our Benji was a couple of months ago, right?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll leave this here.” You take the rattle and leave it on the side table. “She can’t play with it yet.”
“Okay.”
You kiss his head and put him down on the floor.
“You want some coffee?” Braxton as you all head back to the living room.
“Thanks, but I gotta get to work. Maybe another time.”
“I’ll pay you back for the stuff you bought.”
“Receipt is in the bag.” You smile softly at him. “No rush.”
“Thanks again.”
“Don’t sweat it.” You say as you open the door but stop before leaving, glance at him. “Look, about what you said last night… I know someone who works in family law. She’s helped me with my situation. Whether you’ve made out your mind or not, she could guide you through this.”
“I’ll think about it.” He nods, scratching the back of his head.
One more bottle down. One more burp. One more diaper. If there’s something Brax has learnt in the past 4 days is that taking care of a baby is repeating the same thing over and over. It’s routine. The one thing he hasn’t figured out yet is how to bathe her. He does know how to, he’s just too afraid of her slipping out of her hands. He’s kept her clean, but baby wipes are not a long term solution.
He looks back at the door, wishing you’d knock, and show him how to do it. So, after much consideration, he slings the diaper bag to his shoulder with a change of clothes, cradles the baby in his arm, and pushes himself to walk up to your door and knock.
His knuckles tap softly on the surface. He wouldn’t want to wake up your kids if they’re asleep.
You welcome him with that same warmth smile that eases all his fears. He wishes he was just as calm as you are about this whole thing.
It’s not easy to admit he needs help, but this is not about him.
“I’ve watched like five YouTube videos, and read every mommy blog I could find…” he says bashfully. “I still don’t feel qualified to get her in a tub.”
“It’s okay.” You fill the baby tub halfway with warm water, test it with your wrist. Braxton stands behind you like he’s prepping for a medical procedure, watching your every move.
“She’ll scream,” you glance at him, laying out a towel and a change of clothes. “They usually do. It’s not you.”
“She’s been screaming anyway,” he mutters. “Might as well have a reason.”
You show him how to support her neck, how to cup water gently over her belly. She wriggles and lets out a high, furious squeal.
Braxton flinches. “She definitely hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” you say calmly, holding his forearm. “She’s just cold and confused. You're doing fine. She’ll be fine. She’ll get used to this. Dex hated baths too, now he doesn’t come out of the tub until he’s all wrinkled like a prune.”
He nods, quietly focused. When you guide his hands and let him rinse her, he’s awkward but careful.
When the baby is dry and changed you settle her in Ben’s bouncer. After strapping her, you turn it on and watch her face scrunch for a second at the motion, but she decides quickly that she likes it after all.
“You’re a miracle worker.”
“I’m not,” you scoff plopping down on the couch. “Does she have a name?”
“No—I mean yes. Her mom gave her one, but it doesn't suit her. It doesn't feel right saying it either. I’ve been calling her kid.”
“What is it? Is it bad?”
“It’s just weird. It’s Nevaeh, like heaven spelled backwards? I don’t even know if I’m pronouncing it right. Neve, Neva, Nevay… ”
You look at the baby girl. “You’re right. That doesn't suit her. What about her middle name?”
“Angel.”
“Good God! You’re kidding, right? Heaven Angel?”
“Don’t say it.”
“That’s definitely a stripper name,” you can’t help yourself. “That is terrible. Poor girl. You can still change it, you know?”
“What would you name her if you could?”
You don’t have to think much to pick some names off the top of your head. “I’ve always loved classic names like Grace and Amelia. Those would be my kids' names if they were girls.” You stare back at the baby. “Hm, you could change it to Angela, that sounds better. A little Angie. But no… that doesn't sound like her. She looks like a Lizzie. I’d call her Elizabeth. That’s timeless. And it suits her.”
“I like that.”
“Have you heard about her mom?”
“Heard she left the city. I’ve been calling, but it goes straight to voicemail. Told her I’d pay for anything that she needed, begged her to come back but— dunno. I don’t really know her that much either. We were… we just fooled around a few times, and this happened.”
“That’s all it takes. Maybe she’ll change her mind. It can be really overwhelming the first few weeks.”
“No, I don’t think so. Last time I saw her… she had this look on her face… I knew that look too well.” He pauses, swallows whatever is lodged in his throat before admitting. “My mom had that same look when she left. I was ten. She packed a bag and called a cab. I flipped her off from the window. And she never looked back.”
You glance at the way his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for pity.
“I’m sorry,” you utter softly. “That’s a lot for a kid to carry.”
He nods, but doesn’t look at you.
“You know, my dad was a wall-to-wall asshole, but he never bailed on us. That’s the only thing I’d ever give him credit for. In his own twisted way, loyalty and family was the most important thing to him and saw that we learn that. His methods were borderline abusive sometimes but—”
“I think you found your answer.”
He looks at the little girl swinging gently in the bouncing chair with her eyes already closed.
“Yeah, maybe.” You can see the sliver of a smile when one corner of his mouth pulls up slightly.
The decorations were nothing fancy. Just a few balloons and a banner that said ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LIZZIE!’ They had cupcakes instead of cake and when the time came to blow the one single candle she squealed in delight and smashed her special cupcake with both of her fists.
After washing the dishes, Brax leans his arms on the counter watching Lizzie play with Ben in the playpen while Dex sits on the couch and goes through his Netflix account, with the parental controls on, of course. He never gave much thought to having a family of his own. It was unexpectedly sent his way before he could have a say about it. One year later, he’s happy with his choice. All the ups, all the downs were definitely worth it. Now he can’t imagine a life without his daughter. He can’t even remember what his life looked like before. It was just a big whole of nothing. Surely, he loved parts of it… Getting to travel, not having to answer anyone, was thrilling for the old Braxton. The new guy just enjoys watching his daughter play. She’s all cheeks and hair now, and babbles in some alien language he doesn't understand yet. He swears she says “Dada” just to mess with him. She knows it makes him smile. And when she laughs, it’s one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard.
Though everything isn’t perfect, his world feels almost complete. There is just one thing missing… and it’s you. He’s been meaning to tell you that he loves you, and you’re two little guys. He couldn't have done any of this if it wasn’t for you. But his first priority was Lizzie, he wanted to get that right before even considering bringing someone else into his life.
It’s been a year since you knocked on his door. And this is the perfect time to be honest with you and with himself. It’s not because you helped him. It’s because your resilience, your kindness, your dimples, your humor, your… everything; that he can’t keep pretending that you two are just friends anymore. It could ruin this, but he’s absolutely sure that it won’t.
When he hears you coming out of the bathroom, he fixes his hair and dashes into the hallway.
Braxton half blocks your way before you can go back to the living room.
“Hey,” you smile tiredly, ready to go home.
“Hey, can we talk?” He leans on the wall.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“We have a problem,” he utters, feigning a stern look.
“Oh?”
“Your kid has very serious self-control issues. Every time he comes here, he leaves my remote covered in boogers.”
You shrug, chuckling. “I told you to put it somewhere out of reach.”
Mirroring your smile, he bashfully looks down for a second before glancing back up.
“Thanks for helping with all this, by the way. Not just this but you know… for always being there this past year. For her crying… for me crying…” he pauses, contemplates for a beat. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”
“You would’ve figured it out eventually, Brax. You should start giving yourself some credit.” You gaze over the playpen to see the little girl laughing with your son. “Look at her. All that happiness comes from you. Not me.”
He laughs softly. “Let’s say it was a team effort.”
“I’m okay with that.”
Sighing, he hesitates when pulling something out his back pocket. A small jewelry box. It’s not a ring though. Too soon for that.
“What is this?” You pick it up from his hand.
“It’s for you. I realized that I’ve never got you anything. I already said thank you, but I wanted to give you this too.”
Pressing your teeth on your lip, you carefully open it to find a dainty, silver bracelet inside. It has two charms dangling with the initials of your boys.
“Thanks, Braxton.” Touched by the gesture, you lean in closer to give him a hug.
“You like it?”
“Yeah, it’s beautiful.” You pull away to put it on.
“I was wondering…” he clears his throat, watching you loop the bracelet around your wrist and clasp it. “Maybe you and I could have dinner sometime. Just you and me without the rugrats and Ms. Rachel singing in the background.”
“Oh,” you look up. It takes you a couple of seconds to process the information, and get the hint. “You mean like a date?”
“I mean dinner. It doesn't have to be a date. Unless, you want that. Do you?”
You think for a beat and smile. “I think a date would be nice.”