August 1996
Celia Westbrook was five hours postpartum, a seven-ounce child wrapped in a pink blanket nuzzled in the crook of the new mother's arm. Scott Westbrook hummed softly in his sleep, the lanky man's body spread across the cushioned hospital chair. A knock came from the entrance of the private room causing Celia to grin widely.
"Hey there, Mama," Alice, Celia's best friend greeted quietly as she entered the room, the weight of a baby carrier causing the woman's shoulders to appear lopsided. "How is my goddaughter? I'm safe to assume I'm her godmother," Alice pulled the plush pink blanket to the side slightly to view the newborn. "Cel, she's gorgeous."
"I know, she's perfect," Celia commented, smiling down at her daughter.
"Nobody's perfect," Alice joked, pulling the buckles away
