The Parent Protection Program

Chapter 3

Lena’s POV

We were told to arrive at 8 a.m. sharp. No fanfare. No parents. Just a duffel bag, our binders, and a year’s worth of emotional armor.

The child placement center was on the east side of campus, tucked behind the psych building like a secret. Which made sense. The whole program was still technically “experimental,” even though it had been running for three years.

Mrs. Pearl called it “the ultimate applied experience” a year of co-parenting a real child in a controlled environment, under supervision, with professional support. We got course exemptions, research credit, and priority grad placement in exchange. A full year of housing and meal coverage too. Basically, if you made it through, your résumé would catch fire in the good way.

It was supposed to teach empathy, crisis management, emotional intelligence.

What it didn’t account for was how weird it would feel to walk into a room and know the baby inside was already yours. On paper, anyway.

I glanced at Ethan as we stood outside the door marked INFANT UNIT B. He looked calm, like always. But I could see the way his fingers flexed at his sides.

“You ready?” I asked.

He gave a breathy half-laugh. “Define ready.”

The door opened before either of us could pretend.

A staff member greeted us Ms. Rivera, our assigned liaison. She was young, maybe late twenties, with kind eyes and an air of professional calm I instantly envied.

“Lena. Ethan. Come on in.”

The room was soft and sunlit. Neutral colors, rocking chair, changing station. And in the middle of it all, in a bassinet shaped like a cloud, was the tiniest human I’d ever seen.

Four months old. Pale green onesie. Little fists curled near his cheeks like he was dreaming of being a boxer.

“This is Mateo,” Ms. Rivera said softly. “He’s been in the program rotation for six weeks. He’s healthy, on a regular feeding schedule, and just started reaching for things. You’ll be his primary caregivers for the next year.”

I stepped forward, legs a little shaky.

He was so small.

Like, impossibly small.

Ethan hovered just behind me. “Can I…?”

“Of course,” Ms. Rivera said.

He reached in first, carefully, like the baby was made of soap bubbles. But Mateo didn’t fuss. He opened one eye, blinked, and stared straight up at Ethan’s face.

And I swear he smiled. Just a little.

It hit me like a rush of cold water.

This wasn’t a doll. Or a test.

This was a baby. A real baby. And he was ours now.

Sort of.

“This is going to be our life,” I whispered. “Bottles. Diapers. 2 a.m. feedings. While juggling classes and trying not to mess him up.”

Ethan looked at me, still holding Mateo like he was made of light.

“We’ll be fine,” he said. “The schedule’s built around us. They give us exemptions, block off our mornings, let us take online versions of our core courses. And we get mentorship hours instead of gen-ed labs.”

“I know,” I said. “On paper, it’s all manageable.”

He tilted his head. “But?”

“It’s not paper anymore.”

Ms. Rivera smiled from behind her clipboard. “You two are ahead of most. Just take it one feed, one diaper, one moment at a time. You’ll be surprised how fast it starts to feel real.”

I looked at Mateo again. His eyes were already closing.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready.

But he was here.

And so were we.

Ethan’s POV

We took him home in a car seat the school issued us. It was surreal.

Lena sat beside it in the backseat, eyes on him the whole way. She didn’t say much. Neither did I.

Our townhouse felt different when we carried him inside. Like the space itself knew we weren’t alone anymore.

There were bottles sterilized on the counter, a welcome kit from the program staff, and a laminated guide called “Surviving Month Four: What to Expect From Your Baby (And Yourself).”

Lena laughed when she saw it. “This feels like IKEA instructions for parenting.”

I glanced at the little bassinet tucked in the corner of the living room. “Better than winging it.”

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely. “You think Callie and Logan are already being bossed around by their toddler?”

“Definitely. Toddlers have agendas. Mateo’s still figuring out his hands.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“You okay?” I asked.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just… overwhelmed. Not in a bad way. Just… big.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”

And still, I couldn’t stop thinking about how natural she looked sitting beside the car seat. How soft her voice went when she looked at the baby.

We were in this. Fully.

Not a group project.

Not a case study.

This was Mateo. Our baby, for a year.

And if we weren’t careful, it was going to change everything.