The days stretched into weeks, each one stitched together by small rituals that Emma never would have expected to depend on. Jake with his toolbox, Ryan with his paint-stained hands and scattered ideas, her own quiet evenings filled with the baby's shifting movements—these were the threads that wove the waiting days together.
But eventually, all the preparation, all the pacing of time, led her to the moment she had both longed for and dreaded: the first real visit. Not from Luke, not yet—though she dreamed of that day constantly—but from family. From the world outside this careful rhythm, they had built.
It came on a late Sunday morning, the kind of day where the sun played hide-and-seek with thin clouds, letting the light flicker and fade in the living room as Emma dusted the shelves. She had a habit of cleaning when her nerves prickled. The visit wasn't until the afternoon, but she had been moving restlessly since dawn, polishing picture frames, smoothing the blankets draped over the couch, and rearranging the vase of daisies Ryan had brought two days earlier.
The knock on the door startled her even though she had been listening for it.
Jake arrived first, as he usually did. He carried a grocery bag in one hand and a quiet steadiness in the other.
"Morning," he said, stepping inside after she waved him in.
"You're early," Emma replied, trying for casual, though her voice had an edge of relief.
"Figured you'd be pacing," he said, setting the bag on the counter. "Thought some muffins might help."
Emma smiled faintly. "You're not wrong."
They shared a companionable silence as she unpacked the bag—blueberry muffins, still warm, wrapped in brown paper. Jake leaned against the counter, watching her with that patient gaze of his.
"You'll be fine," he said after a while.
"You don't even know what I'm nervous about."
"Doesn't matter. You'll be fine."
Emma exhaled slowly, gripping the counter's edge. "It's just… it feels real now. Letting people in. Letting them see this life I'm building without Luke here. I don't know how to explain it."
"You don't have to," Jake said simply.
Before she could answer, another knock rattled the door. Ryan, of course, arriving with his usual flourish.
"Delivery!" he called, pushing the door open with his shoulder. He balanced a tray of sandwiches, his paint-speckled jacket draped over one arm.
Emma laughed despite herself. "You two planned this, didn't you?"
Ryan grinned. "What can I say? Great minds, etcetera."
Together, they filled the kitchen with food and quiet laughter, the atmosphere shifting from Emma's anxious solitude to something warmer, safer.
The afternoon brought the visitor: Emma's older sister, Hannah. She lived two towns over and had been asking—gently, persistently—for weeks to see Emma, to help, to be there. Emma had hesitated, not because she didn't love her sister, but because letting her in meant admitting how vulnerable she had become.
When Hannah finally arrived, Emma caught her breath at the sight. Her sister, with her neat coat and practical shoes, her hair pulled back familiarly, was suddenly a bridge to the world Emma had been holding at arm's length.
"Em," Hannah said softly, pulling her into a hug. "You look… well, you look like you."
Emma blinked back sudden tears. "That's something, I guess."
They moved inside, where Jake offered tea and Ryan cracked a joke about muffins being a new currency of care. Hannah laughed politely, but her eyes stayed fixed on Emma, scanning, worried, assessing in the way sisters do.
"You've been managing?" Hannah asked once they had settled in the living room.
Emma glanced at Jake and Ryan before answering. "I've had help."
Hannah followed her gaze and smiled faintly. "I can see that."
Jake nodded in quiet acknowledgment, while Ryan gave a dramatic bow from the armchair. Emma rolled her eyes but smiled.
The afternoon unfolded slowly, as if everyone was adjusting to the new rhythm of four instead of three. Hannah asked questions about the baby—due dates, doctor visits, cravings—while Jake kept the tea flowing and Ryan strummed the guitar softly in the background.
At one point, Hannah touched the mural in the nursery, running her fingers lightly over the painted stars. "It's beautiful," she whispered.
"Ryan," Emma said, tilting her head toward her brother-in-law substitute artist.
"Team effort," Ryan replied with a wink.
But later, when Hannah stepped outside to take a call from her husband, Emma sagged onto the couch with a sigh.
"You okay?" Jake asked.
"She means well," Emma murmured. "But I feel like I'm under a microscope."
Ryan leaned over the back of the couch. "That's what sisters are for. Judging, worrying, then feeding you cake."
Emma laughed, tension easing. "Something like that."
Evening crept in. Hannah stayed for dinner—soup Emma had fretted over, muffins Jake had brought, sandwiches Ryan insisted were gourmet if you ignored the uneven bread cuts. They ate together at the kitchen table, the four of them, conversation meandering between childhood memories, stories of Luke, even gentle teasing that made Emma's cheeks ache from smiling.
Afterward, as Hannah hugged Emma goodbye, she whispered, "You're stronger than you think. And you're not alone."
Emma swallowed hard, nodding.
When the house quieted again, just the three of them remained. Jake washed dishes, Ryan packed up his guitar, and Emma stood in the nursery doorway, staring at the painted stars glowing faintly in the low light.
It struck her then: this was the first visit, the first time she had opened her home and heart to the outside world since Luke left. And though it had been hard, though she felt raw and exposed, she also felt something else—something like pride.
She was building a life, piece by piece. Not the one she had planned, not the one she wanted most, but one she could still love.
The weeks that followed carried echoes of that visit. More calls from family, more check-ins. Some days were heavy, full of silence and missing Luke so much her chest ached. Other days were lighter, punctuated by Ryan's music or Jake's quiet presence, by Hannah's texts with baby advice, by the baby's tiny kicks against her ribs.
Through it all, Emma learned to breathe again. Not perfectly, not without moments of faltering—but steadily, enough to carry her forward.
And when she lay in bed at night, hand resting on her belly, she whispered to the baby words she wasn't sure she was ready to say out loud to anyone else:
"We're going to be okay. We're not alone."