In this moment, our world condenses to this small bundle cradled in my arms. I smile as I smooth my long fingers over her light ginger tufts. Her eyes follow the movement of my hand and I'm lost in her. Secondarily, I feel a light tugging on my womb to indicate the delivery of the placenta. Then the buzz of the dermal regenerator quickly heals my stretched and swollen tissues. In the corner of my eye I see a nurse clean away the mess born of the delivery. Finally, I feel movement at the base of the bed as my legs let down are allowed to rest from their perch.

And in an instant, we're alone with her.

I don't know how long it's been since either of us has spoken. We can't help but stare and marvel at this tiny new life. We can't help but be struck by the fact that she's the fulfillment of a dream we've both harboured for 25 years.

He kisses my cheek and tentatively moves his hand to touch his daughter. "She's perfect," he says, his voice softer than a whisper.

Now, her small eyes follow the trajectory of his hand, "she's got your eyes," I kiss his cheek, tasting the ever-flowing moisture that dances down from his handsome, expressive grey-green eyes.

"And your hair!" He adds with jubilance.

"And my hair," I repeat softly.

"We don't have a name for her." I say as I place her in the arms of her father. I'll never forget the way that he looked at her in this moment. His cradle is soft, but sure. He supports her tiny head with one big hand as her tiny body lies across his arm. He captivates me.

"Hello little one," and in that moment, the only two people who exist in the universe are Jean Luc and his baby girl. She looks up at her father and raises her little arm in an unconscious movement. He smiles and gingerly takes her tiny hand in his own, admiring the delicate petite fingers and thin fingernails. "She's…" his grin spreads even wider, "she's just as beautiful as her mother," he tears his gaze from her for a moment, "whom I love with everything in me."

His tenderness is doing nothing to help the abatement of my tears. I lean over and kiss him softly, "I love you." I look back at our daughter, "we need a name."

He's silent for a time, letting his thoughts percolate.

"Saoirse. It's an ancient Celtic name that means 'freedom'."

I couldn't think of a name that was more appropriate for our daughter. Almost a year ago now, Jean Luc and I freed ourselves from the constraints and the burdens of decades of guilt and unhappiness. Finally, we allowed ourselves to love one another fully. And our love bore our daughter. I can't think of anything more perfect

"Yes. Saoirse."

I hear a knock at the door followed by a familiar voice, "Mom?"

I look up and smile as I see my son, "Wes! You made it."

Like the wonderful boy he is, he brings a bouquet of camellias and sets them near the bed, "I'm sorry I wasn't here for the birth. I didn't get your message before PT this morning."

He comes around to kiss my cheek, "Wes, this is Saoirse."

Watching the look of wonder overtake my son's face is something that I'll always cherish. I let myself fully rest against Jean Luc and I bask in the contentment of being surrounded by my perfect family.

"Can I, uh, can I hold her?"

"Of course."

"She's so small," he whispers as he supports her head. Wesley can't break himself away from the spell that this little person has woven. She wriggles her little body into her brother's tender grasp and succumbs to sleep. Not minutes later, I correspondingly fall into a deep slumber born of exhaustion, contentment, and the love that envelops me.