The drive home was slow, careful, and quiet.


Michael gripped the steering wheel as if it were made of glass. Elara sat in the back seat beside the car seat, her eyes never leaving Aurora’s sleeping face.


It felt surreal. After months of imagining, preparing, fearing, hoping—she was real. And she was theirs.




The apartment looked different somehow. Softer. Warmer. Like it had been holding its breath and now could finally exhale.


There were balloons from neighbors taped to the door. A casserole in the fridge from the family down the hall. A bouquet of lilacs from the conservatory where Elara had once performed.


The crib waited. The changing table. The rows of folded onesies. It was all ready.


But nothing truly prepares you for the moment you place your child into their new home and realize you are not just visiting parenthood—you are living it.




That first night, they didn’t sleep. Not really.


Aurora cried. Then fed. Then cried again. Michael rocked her, bleary-eyed. Elara changed her diaper with trembling hands and a heart that swelled at every tiny sound.


There were mistakes. Laughter. Tears. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t feel human. But also joy—thick and bright and holy.


At 5:23 a.m., Aurora finally settled into sleep.


Elara stepped out onto the small balcony just as the first rays of sun crept over the Paris skyline.


She held her daughter in a soft blanket, close to her chest, and watched as the city woke.


Michael stepped out behind her and wrapped his arms around both of them.


“We made it through our first night,” he whispered.


Elara nodded. “And she saw her first sunrise.”




Later that morning, Elara pulled out the keepsake box and added a fresh letter.


“Dear Aurora—

Today we brought you home.

Today, we learned how to be parents.

Not perfectly. But fully.

You cried. We cried.

And then the sun rose.

And I think that means we’re going to be okay.”