“Actually, I think I might’ve just changed it, but I wanted to know what you thought.”

“So, let’s hear it.”

“Jada Quinn Anderson.”

And it’s perfect.

“You think Dad would feel left out?”

Whit shrugs. “Next kid’s his.”

“Next kid,” I say, but before I can press her for details, someone’s knocking at the door. And then Ms. B’s walking in, out of her scrubs and in street clothes.

“Hey,” Whit says. “Look, Jada, it’s our favorite nurse.”

Ms. B smiles. Her eyes red, maybe for crying, maybe from exhaustion, I’d put my money on both. “You up for a little company?”

Whit nods. “Jada’s been waiting for her godmother to come back and see her.”

Ms. B’s really cheesing now, and I carefully transfer Jada into her arms. “Jada Quinnnnnnn,” she coos. “Jada Quinnnnn . . .”

And okay, I know it’s not possible for a newborn, but I swear Jada grins.

A familiar voice at the door. “Heard there was a party in here,” Autumn says, flowers and a string of balloons in one hand, two gift bags squeezed together in her other.

I hurry over, take the balloons and flower bouquet.

Kiss her face and feel the rush I always get when she kisses me back.

“Hey, baby,” I say.

“Hey, baby,” she sings back.

“Eww, get a room, you two,” Whit yells, waving her hands like we physically stink.

“But not a room here anytime soon,” Ms. B pipes up, giving us her patented stare. “You hear me, you two?”

And we crack up, even though we know she’s serious as hell.

Because we know she’s serious as hell.

She’s already told us she’s gonna use the time she has on her hands to make sure we all stay in line. She’s already talking about painting a room for Jada, when she watches her when Whit starts back up school in the fall.

I wonder if it’ll be Q’s room.

Part of me hopes not.

But also, I think Q would like that.

Would want that.

And then just when I think this room can’t possibly be full of more joy.

Three rapid taps on the door, and standing there with more shiny foil balloons in one hand, a vase of yellow flowers clutched against his chest, and tears in his eyes is . . .

“Whit, ohmigod, ohmigod, I can’t believe . . . I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, baby. But wow.” He moves quickly to the bed. “You look so beautiful. Radiant.”

“Liar.” Whit wipes her eyes. Smooths her hair, which she’d thrown up in a messy bun. “I look terrible.”

He kisses Whit’s forehead, gently, like she might break. “You’ve never looked terrible a second in your whole life.”

I clear my throat extra loud. Wave at my sister, at Angeles.