Welcome Home
745 Words
Week 34. Two weeks until C-section.
Damian hadn’t slept in 3 days. Not because of fear. Because of wood.
“Almost done,” he’d mutter from the second bedroom. Sawdust in his hair. Bandages peeking out from his hoodie.
Doctor said “no lifting”. Damian heard “no heavy lifting”. So he sanded. Painted. Screwed hinges with one hand while the other stayed on my stomach.
“Damian, come rest,” I’d call from the mattress. 34 weeks meant I barely moved now.
“After this last coat,” he’d answer. Voice rough. “They need to be perfect.”
Tonight he finally stopped.
“Ava,” he said from the doorway. Quiet. Different. “Come see.”
“I can’t walk that far—”
“I’ll carry you,” he said. Like he always did.
He lifted me. Slow. Careful of 34 weeks + his ribs. Carried me to the second bedroom.
And stopped.
Two cribs. Side by side. Not matching. Not perfect.
One had the wooden star he burned “Ava” into. One had the matchstick briefcase.
Both painted white. Chipped in places. One leg on Baby Boy’s crib was shorter. He’d fixed it with a book.
But they were ours. Built from dumpster wood. From soup cans. From promises made in Chapter 19.
Damian set me down on the floor between them. Sat next to me. Back against the wall. Exhausted.
“Done,” he whispered. Voice cracked. “CEO Damian Black’s final project. Not a tower. Not a merger. A home.”
I touched the rail of Baby Girl’s crib. Smooth. He’d sanded it 100 times. “Damian… you did this with broken ribs. With no money. With no sleep.”
He nodded. Couldn’t speak. Just stared at them like he couldn’t believe it.
“I used to build offices for 2000 people,” he said finally. “Never felt like this. This… this is the first thing I made that someone will actually sleep in. That someone will dream in.”
He pulled the mobile from Chapter 26 down. Hung it between both cribs. Star, briefcase, pull-tab ring all spinning together.
“Now it’s for both of them,” he said. “No division. No ‘Baby A’ and ‘Baby B’. Just… them. Our team.”
I laid down on the floor. Damian laid behind me. Both of us staring up at the cribs. At the mobile casting shadows.
“They’ll fit,” I whispered. “Even if they’re early. Even if they’re small. They’ll fit because you made them.”
Damian’s arm came around me. Hand on my stomach. 34 weeks meant they were huge now. Kicking the rails like they approved.
“I was scared,” he admitted into my hair. “Scared I’d give them nothing. No trust fund. No inheritance. Just… me. Broke. Bandaged. A dad who can only offer scrap wood.”
I turned in his arms. Made him look at me. “Damian Black, you’re offering them safety. You’re offering them a father who quit a billion-dollar company to stir soup. Who learned nursery rhymes. Who built this with his bare hands.”
I kissed his jaw. Rough with stubble. “Money buys beds. Love builds homes. You built us a home.”
He closed his eyes. One tear slipped. He didn’t wipe it.
“In Chapter 1 I offered you $50M and a contract,” he whispered. “In Chapter 30 I offer you two crooked cribs and a promise. Which would you pick?”
I smiled. Put his hand on the star. On the briefcase. “Chapter 30. Because Chapter 1 you wanted to own me. Chapter 30 you just want to keep us safe.”
He nodded against me. “Welcome home, little ones. Daddy’s here. Mama’s here. The cribs are waiting. No fire. No contracts. Just us.”
Both babies kicked. Right at the word “us”. Like they were saying “we’re coming”.
Damian laughed through tears. “They’re impatient. Just like their dad.”
He pulled me closer. We fell asleep on the floor between the cribs. Mobile spinning above us. Shadows dancing on the ceiling.
No penthouse. No Black Tower.
Just two cribs. Two parents. Three heartbeats.
And for the first time since Chapter 1, Damian Black had everything he needed.
Because home isn’t where the money is.
Home is where he is. Where we are.
- Writer
