Page 191 of Deacon

He froze, his eyes scanning the small window on the device before moving up to meet my gaze.

His jaw slackened, shock washing over his features, then a massive grin broke across his face.

‘Are you serious?’ he breathed, pulling me into his arms and lifting my feet off the tiled floor as he laughed.

‘Ana, damn, woman!’

We double-checked the results with our doctor the next afternoon.

We were having a baby.

Deacon couldn’t stop grinning and kissing my forehead every so often in the clinic office.

A few weeks later, we found out the our new addition to the family was a girl.

We chose the name Ella, as close as we could get to our first baby girl’s name.

I was over the moon, but sometimes the excitement gave way to a dark, quiet fear sitting in the recesses of my soul.

I confessed to Deacon that I occasionally got terrified of going through the same heartbreak we suffered with Estella.

So I bought an Owlet monitor before I was even six months along, ignoring anyone who said it was overkill.

The live heart rate data offered me peace of mind. I stopped trying to pretend I was fearless and sought help for the anxiety.

Carrying a child after a loss was a complex, emotional journey, and after a few sessions with a therapist, I was able to learn the skills to take it one day at a time.

‘When panic hits you, find your husband, or we talk through it instead of retreating into a shell,’ the doctor told me.

I followed his advice and soon found that Deacon’s calm logic was more than enough to pull me out of desolate spirals, and my openness kept him from shutting down.

However, even with the best medical care, my world and the baby in me seemed fragile.

To stay grounded, I stuck to a daily routine: a light morning walk and breathing exercises.

I acknowledged the fear, but I refused to let it steal the joy of carrying my third child.

Deacon was right there beside me for every step. He didn’t miss a single ultrasound, blood test, or midwife checkup.

‘How are we today, malkia?’ he asked, taking my hand in the waiting room before our 36-week doctor visit.

‘Terrified,’ I admitted. ‘My mind keeps spinning.’

‘Look at me,’ he said, turning my face toward his. ‘We’re in this together, beautiful. Day by freakin’ day.’

Ella Simone Vega arrived at St. Thomas Hospital in Nashville on a crisp Tuesday morning.

She came into the world yelling at the top of her lungs, letting everyone know she was healthy, vocal, loud, and beautiful, with soft, lush dark curls and the cutest button nose.

An hour later, Théa ushered a wide-eyed Raff into the room to meet his sister.

Our son tiptoed in, carrying a small teddy bear, his eyes locking onto the bassinet beside my bed.

‘Is that her?’ he whispered, his face lighting up.

‘Come here, big brother,’ Deacon said, guiding our son over.

Raff leaned down and brushed his knuckle over her tiny hand.