She stirs under blankets, limbs lethargic, mind still bleary with sleep. Arms stretch in the glorious unwinding of morning, the realization that she has slept longer than usual settling with the unhurried pace of autumn leaves twirling downward from a high branch.
Something is missing, she understands, the bare spot on breasts filling jolting her into a sitting position. Arms that should not be empty search for the bundle they held but hours ago, quieting cries in the darkness as exhaustion took hold.
What was lost is discovered in a place unexpected. There—in the corner chair, nestled into his father's chest. Both sleeping soundly, although one's neck will most assuredly protest a position she is certain cannot be comfortable. A smile forms as she stares at them, an awe of this new life created welling up under ribs alongside her need to nurse.
She knows well their slumber will not last much longer. Her body is primed for its morning duty.
Vague recollections of whimpers at twilight settle gradually, pulling her from under bed clothes warmed by bodies into the chill of morning air. She steps nearer, resisting the urge to straighten hair mussed in the night, wanting to give him every moment of rest that she can, knowing how he afforded her such a luxury.
There it is, a stretch, a stirring, small lips rounding in a search instigated while eyes remain shut. A large hand twitches in response, the instincts of a father tugging on emotions heightened from giving birth. She already sees a likeness, noticed it from the moment dark eyes opened to stare at her for the first time. He always denies it, but she spies the grin flushing across his mouth at her words, the flash of pride that shines clearly at her assertion.
The first protest is voiced, and she scoops her son up gently, making her way back to the bed where he latches on with haste. Her spine melds into the pillows, her skin relishing the renewed covering of blankets as they settle into a position still new but already familiar.
"Did you rest well?"
The voice is groggy and deep, pushing through the dryness of morning as his eyes attempt to focus.
"Yes, thanks to you."
Her response is met with a grin weighed down with sleep.
"Why don't you come back to bed?" she continues softly. "Before your neck gets stuck in that position."
"I think I'll take you up on that offer," he muses, padding across the floor, sliding in beside her, smiling at their child taking in his fill. "He's a greedy little man, isn't he?"
"Life father, like son," she returns, eliciting a chuckle before he falls back on the mattress, sighing upon contact.
"I'm too tired to argue that point at the moment," he murmurs, stroking her arm. "Can I have until breakfast to mull it over?"
"I don't mind," she hums, whispering fingers across silken black locks. "My comparison is valid, regardless of the time of day."
"Hmm," he mumbles, eyelids closing despite his best efforts. "It's impossible to argue with you over anything when you're holding him like that."
She voices a sound of appreciation, watching him quickly succumb to the lure of rest. It is a sensation she knows well, the pull of consciousness into a realm of velvet, borne from the dregs of fatigue and broken sleep. The rise and fall of his chest mesmerizes her, appeases her spirit, as it keeps time with the rhythmic tugging on her breast. She inhales it all, savors it-life created, life given, and this time, not taken. Two are here with her, in this moment, in this bed. A second husband, a second son. She holds this miracle closer, smiling at the dimple already visible in a small cheek, breathing a benediction of thanks as she has every morning during the two weeks since his birth.
This time, things are different. This time, she is allowed to keep them both.