Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Please stay
I want you, I need you, oh, God
Don't take
These beautiful things that I've got

- Benson Boone

Danny Concannon stepped out onto the wraparound porch, a thin coat of frost squeaking beneath his socked feet. The sun was just beginning to stretch over the far line of cherry trees, bleeding soft gold into the pale November sky. He lifted his mug of black coffee—strong enough to wake the dead, exactly how his mother brewed it—and breathed in the scent of cold air and woodsmoke.

Maggie, their aging golden retriever, ambled out after him. Her gait had slowed in the past few years, but the moment she reached his side, her tail gave a valiant, hopeful wag. Danny lowered a hand to her head, fingers combing through the long, graying fur behind her ears.

“Hiya, good girl,” he murmured. “You’re up early too.”

She sighed and rested her head against his leg. Danny kept petting her, staring out across the acreage that had been the backdrop of his childhood. Rows of cherry trees were bare for winter, the red barn still crooked after all these years, patches of a light dusting of snow tucked into the long shadows of the orchard. 

Inside the house, the floorboards creaked. It was almost certainly his mother milling about in the kitchen, but instinctively he glanced up toward the second-floor window of his childhood bedroom. CJ was still sleeping up there, curled beneath a quilt his mother had stitched sometime during the Reagan administration. The image made something warm settle in his chest. She looked good here, he thought. Soft. Rested. Happy.

His sisters would descend in a few hours. All five of them. All married, all loud, all thrilled beyond belief that Danny had finally brought a girl home. At least a dozen nieces and nephews would barrel through the door shortly after, full of sugared cereal and turkey-day excitement.

Danny took another slow sip and let the quiet settle over him, sending up a silent prayer of thanks to whoever may have been listening. 

_______________

From inside the house, he heard his father’s exasperated voice swearing at the television remote. 

“Hey, bud? C’mere and help me with this a minute.”

Danny smirked, giving Maggie a last pat on the head and moved inside. 

The smell of coffee and turkey gravy wafted through his nose, reminding him of the many Thanksgivings he’d spent in this house. Touch football in the yard, fighting his sisters for a chance to break the turkey wishbone, enough pumpkin pie to choke a horse. 

He made his way down the front hallway past about a hundred framed family pictures into the den where his father stood glaring at the T.V. remote through his reading glasses. 

“Can’t get this damn thing to work. Your mother wants the parade on for the kids.”

Danny gently pried the wrong remote from his dad’s hands and went to work providing what his mother would call “technical support”. 

A few clicks on the correct remote and NBC flickered into view on the aging TV set, a little countdown in the corner signaling an hour to go until the parade would start. 

His father grunted his approval and patted Danny on the back. 

“Thanks, son. Sleep okay?”

“I did, yes, sir. You?”

“Mmm. S’pose I did despite your mother’s snoring.”

“I heard that!”

Danny chuckled as his mother’s voice floated in from the kitchen—sharp as ever despite the early hour.

“You keep talking like that and you can make your own stuffing this year,” she warned.

His father rolled his eyes in Danny’s direction, but the tiny smirk tugging the corner of his mouth gave him away. Danny shook his head, heart full at how little had changed in this house, even as everything else in his life had.

He followed his father toward the kitchen, Maggie trotting behind them with the hopeful air of a dog who believed breakfast could happen at any moment. Despite the freezing temperature outside, the kitchen was borderline humid with the oven going and his mother elbow-deep in celery and onions. A pot bubbled on the stove, filling the room with the unmistakable smell of gravy in progress. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” his mother said without looking up, though she reached out blindly to give his arm a squeeze. “CJ still sleeping, I hope?”

“Last I checked,” Danny said, leaning against the counter.

“Good. Is she feeling better? She was awfully pale last night at dinner. Barely ate a thing!”

Danny sipped the final dregs of his coffee and nodded, trying to come up with a convincing lie. 

“She’s getting over a cold and she was pretty wiped out from the flight.”

“Well, let her sleep. Poor thing’s going to need her energy later. Your sisters are very excited.”

Danny groaned. “Why does that sound like a threat?”

His father snorted into his coffee. “Because it is.”

Danny lingered in the doorway a moment, watching his mother chop onions with the same brisk efficiency she applied to every holiday meal. “Need me to do anything?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Without looking up, she waved him away with the back of her knife. “No, no. I’ve been running this kitchen since before you were born. You’ll only get in my way, sweetheart.”

His father murmured something that sounded suspiciously like agreement before taking another sip of coffee.

Danny smirked. “Okey doke. I’m gonna go check on CJ then.”

“Mm-hm,” his mother said, still not looking at him. She reached for a mixing bowl, paused halfway, and added casually, “Take her up a cup of tea and some toast. Something plain. Might settle her stomach.”

Danny froze. Not dramatically, not even noticeably, but enough that Maggie, sitting loyally at his heel, sensed the shift and nudged his hand.

“…Right,” he said after a beat. “Yeah. I can do that.”

His mother didn’t turn around. “Good boy.”

He wasn’t sure if the tightness in his chest was amusement, panic, or the faint, startling suspicion that after roughly forty-three years of experience, his mother could still read him better than anyone alive.

Danny grabbed a mug from the rack and reached for the kettle, trying not to think too hard about the possibility that his mother already knew the real reason CJ looked pale. 

_______________

He climbed the creaky old staircase leading to his childhood bedroom, instinctively avoiding the two steps that had betrayed him during every teenage attempt at sneaking in after curfew. The farmhouse was quiet up here, the kind of soft, insulated morning hush that made every sound from his footsteps to the gentle clink of the mug seem louder than it was.

Mug of tea and a small plate of toast in hand, Danny nudged the door open with his shoulder. The hinges groaned in greeting.

Maggie trotted in ahead of him, tail thumping against the doorframe, her whole back end swaying with the effort of wagging. She gave a happy, breathy whine at the sight of CJ.

Danny’s expression softened immediately.

CJ was curled into a tight little ball in the center of his old bed cocooned by two quilts. One arm was draped protectively across her stomach, the other dangling limply over the edge toward the small trashcan positioned beside the bed like an unfortunate but necessary companion.

Danny set the toast and tea on the nightstand with a soft clatter and brushed a hand through her hair, smoothing it back from her forehead. She stirred, blinking awake with that same drowsy, not-quite-ready-for-morning look he adored.

“Hi,” she whispered, her voice soft and raspy, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Hiya,” he whispered back, brushing his knuckles lightly over her temple. “How ya feelin’?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if running a diagnostic scan on herself. Her brow furrowed, her breathing slow and deliberate while she checked in with every unsettled part of her body.

“Okay… right now,” she decided, opening her eyes again. “Give me five minutes and I’ll let you know if I lied.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair enough.”

Maggie chose that moment to hop onto the bed with the calculated care of an old lady, landing next to CJ with a soft whump. The dog circled twice before curling herself tightly against CJ’s stomach, resting her head gently over the arm CJ had settled there.

CJ’s smile grew, tired but genuine. “Hey, sweet girl,” she murmured, giving Maggie an appreciative scratch behind the ears.

Danny sat on the edge of the bed, his hand finding hers beneath the quilt, squeezing it with steady, warm, wordless reassurance. He watched her carefully, memorizing the new softness in her features, the vulnerability she only let herself show with him.

“Brought up some tea,” he murmured, setting the mug within her reach. “And some toast. Think Peanut’ll let you keep it down?”

CJ huffed a weak laugh.

“Don’t have anything left to throw up, so… I guess we’re about to find out.”

Danny winced, sympathetic to the bone. Up close, he could see the faint burst blood vessels at the corners of her eyes—tiny red freckles of how hard the night had been on her.

“I feel like apologizing is sort of a moot point,” he said softly. “But for the record, I am sorry.”

“I accept your apology,” she said, lifting the blanket just enough to look at him, “and insert my own—sorry I barfed on your hand… while you were so valiantly cleaning up round-one barf this morning.”

Danny snorted. “Least I can do.”

“Seriously.” She shifted, Maggie pressing closer as if cushioning her. “I’m sorry. I’ll try and perfect my aim by the time this is over.”

“No apology required,” he said firmly.

“So gross,” she groaned, half-burying her face in the pillow.

“Not at all,” Danny assured her. “You’re a dainty puker.”

Her head snapped up just enough for her glare to qualify as legally binding.

“Ugh. Dainty?”

“Compared to my fraternity brothers?” Danny shook his head reverently. “Oh, hell yeah. You’re practically elegant.”

CJ covered her face with both hands, laughing despite herself—weak, exhausted, but real.

“Oh God, I’m so gross.”

Danny’s grin spread helplessly. That laugh of hers. It hit him with the full force of a fresh cup of coffee. Like sunlight. Like everything good.

“Yeah, you’re pretty gross,” he teased gently, leaning in.

Before she could swat at him, he kissed her softly and surely, lingering on her chapped lips as if to say even her most enthusiastic vomit couldn’t scare him away. 

Danny slid his hand behind CJ’s shoulders and helped her sit up, moving slowly, carefully, the way you’d help someone cradle something fragile. She let him guide her, leaning into his touch, one hand pressed instinctively to her belly as if steadying herself from the inside out.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Let’s try a little tea.”

She took the mug with both hands, breathing in the steam like it might negotiate peace between her and her stomach. After a moment, she dared a tiny sip.

CJ sighed. “Okay… that’s not terrible.”

“High praise,” he teased.

But her expression shifted. Her brows furrowed, her shoulders tightened. Worry flickered across her features.

“What?” Danny asked, ready to grab the trash can.

She hesitated. “Your parents. I feel like I’m being rude. I should be downstairs… helping your mom, or… talking to your dad about the weather, or whatever it is people do when they’re not curled up in bed with a vomit bucket.”

Danny let out a quiet laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Ceej, they’re fine.”

“I know, but… it’s Thanksgiving. And your whole family is coming. I don’t want them thinking I’m…”

“Sick?” he offered gently.

She grimaced. “Useless.”

Danny sat beside her fully, shoulder to shoulder, close enough that she could feel his warmth.

“They won’t think that.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.” He kissed her temple. “My parents already love you more than they love me.”

CJ snorted. “Oh sure… says the prodigal son.”

“Okay, maybe not more than me, but you’re definitely outranking two or three of my sisters.”

She laughed despite herself, weak but genuine. He cupped her cheek.

“And…” he added softly, “I think my mom… might have a hunch.”

CJ blinked.

“A hunch?”

Danny winced sympathetically. “Yeah. I mean… she suggested tea and toast without me even asking. And she asked if you were feeling better in that tone…”

“Oh God,” CJ groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “The Mom Tone?”

“The Mom Tone.”

She peeked at him through her fingers, mortified and amused all at once.

“Oh boy…” CJ groaned, dragging her hands down her face.

Danny gently caught them before she could hide again, pulling her fingers away and threading his own through hers. Her palms were warm and clammy, but he held onto them like something precious.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soft enough to be a blanket. “I could also be reading way too much into it.”

CJ exhaled, a long, shaky breath, and leaned her head against his shoulder. He felt the weight of her there. Trusting, tired, and just a little overwhelmed.

“Honestly,” she said, closing her eyes, “six children, a million grandchildren… at this point I’d be more surprised if she didn’t know.”

Danny chuckled, pressing his cheek briefly against her hair. 

“Probably right.”

CJ shifted slightly, smiling as Maggie draped herself over her legs. “I still feel like I need to be down there helping,” she said. “I want her to like me.”

“CJ,” Danny said gently, kissing the top of her head. “She thinks you hung the moon. You could vomit on the turkey and she’d still insist you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

That got a laugh out of her. Soft, weary, but real. She rested her hand on her belly, her thumb stroking in a small, unconscious circle.

“I just… don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“Never,” Danny promised. He leaned in until his forehead touched hers, grounding her with the slow, steady cadence of his breath.

For a moment, she seemed calm, centered.

Then her expression shifted. Her eyes unfocused; her lips parted. A wave of nausea crept up her like a tide reclaiming the shore. She began breathing deliberately through it, slow and measured, her free hand gripping the quilt.

“Easy,” Danny whispered, already steadying the trashcan with one hand and stroking her back with the other. “Just breathe. I’m here.”

She nodded, closing her eyes. 

CJ rode out the wave of nausea, her shoulders trembling slightly as she leaned against Danny. He kept his hand pressed lightly to her back, willing the discomfort away with his presence. When the wave passed, she reached for the toast, nibbling carefully, her small movements deliberate and cautious.

Danny watched her, chest tightening with guilt. “I feel awful that we’re not at home.”

CJ shrugged, a wry, tired little smile tugging at her lips. “How were we supposed to know that ill-named morning sickness would hit the minute we boarded our flight?” She managed a small laugh, the sound soft but warm. “Seriously. ‘Morning sickness.’ They lied. It’s all day, all night.”

Danny laughed, though it was edged with concern. “Yeah… what a scam.”

She poked at the toast again, nibbling, before leaning back against the pillows. After a pause, her voice softened, uncertain. “Do you… think maybe we should just tell them? Even though it’s early?”

Danny felt his heart skip at the thought, and he brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead.

“We could...” he hesitated, wanting to be gentle, careful, protective. 

The quiet hung between them, heavy with unspoken words. His mind wandered, unbidden, to the spring just months ago. The bright, hopeful morning when they had called his family to share their totally unexpected and unplanned news. The chain of phone calls, each one a little thrill of excitement, until just six weeks later, new words came: we lost the baby.

He remembered the heavy ache, the way CJ had cried quietly on the sofa while he held the phone to his ear, trying to keep his own voice steady as he told his mother. The silence that followed, punctuated by whispered condolences and his mother’s quiet sniffling, replayed itself in his mind.

Now, sitting here with her fragile against his shoulder, he traced a gentle line along her hand, his thumb brushing absently over her knuckles. He remembered how careful they had promised to be with their hearts after the loss. How long it had taken to imagine trying again without fear gnawing at the edges. Everything felt so devastatingly fragile now. If their first pregnancy had been a surprise, their second had been the shock of a lifetime. They’d been holding their breath since the moment the pregnancy test showed a second positive line. Danny had a feeling they’d be holding their breath until the baby was safely in their arms. Maybe until the baby enrolled in college or something. Even the “reassuring” ultrasound earlier in the week had done little to ease their anxiety. The weight of their grief had shifted everything from a confident when to a tentative, trembling if. 

Please, God, Danny had prayed as this baby’s heartbeat flickered to life on the ultrasound screen. Please don’t take this one away from us.

Danny breathed in the soft scent of her hair and the faint tang of tea, grounding himself in this quiet moment, grateful that, for now, it was just them. Just them, and the slow, careful hope of something new tucked quietly between them.

CJ shifted slightly, nuzzling closer against his shoulder. Her voice was low, almost swallowed by the quiet of the room. “Even though it hurt… having to tell your family we lost the baby, it was… nice. All the support afterward.”

Danny felt a small smile tug at his lips. He remembered it all—the flowers stacked on their doorstep, the casseroles and delivery with little notes, the sympathy cards tucked between pages of books, and the tiny angel tokens that had arrived in the mail, each one a delicate reminder that they weren’t alone.

He tightened his hand around hers, brushing his thumb lightly over her knuckles. “Yeah,” he said softly. 

“The nausea might be a good sign,” she said with a weak smile. “I wasn’t this sick last time.”

Danny swallowed a hard lump in his throat and nodded in hopeful agreement. 

“We can tell them if you want, baby. Whatever you wanna do.”

She closed her eyes and nodded, sighing heavily. Her hand drifted to her stomach, fingers brushing a soft curve beneath her sweater. Danny let his other hand settle over hers, a quiet shield, a steady presence.

He scanned her face for a hint at returning nausea, but didn’t find it there. 

“Whatcha thinkin,” he asked in a hushed whisper. 

“I want arm tickles.”

“Arm tickles?”

“Yeah, you know… like… run your fingernails lightly up and down my arm.”

Danny chuckled quietly at the sweet innocence of it. 

“Gotcha, gotcha. Yeah, I’ll give you some arm tickles.”

He dragged his fingertips over her freckled forearm, willing his touch to soothe her. 

“Mmm. Thank you.” 

Danny let his fingers linger on her forearm, tracing light, teasing lines up and down her skin. He wanted to soothe her, to remind her that she wasn’t alone, that he’d always be there. But even as he focused on the gentle rhythm of the tickles, his mind drifted back to the spring. Back to the way CJ had curled into herself, exhausted and hollow, after the miscarriage.

He remembered the long night she had spent quietly whimpering in pain, the morning she’d wavered at the sink, too weak to hold herself upright, the way her hair fell in damp strands across her forehead while he held her hand and whispered that it wasn’t her fault, and her silent tears that followed. He remembered how heartbreaking it had been to watch her strong, brilliant, unstoppable CJ brought so low by something neither of them could control.

His chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, forcing the memory back down so he could focus on her now. On this moment. On her small smile, the little curve of her lips, the softness of her hand resting over his.

“Don’t stop,” she murmured softly, leaning against him.

Danny grinned, continuing the delicate, feather-light trail up her arm. The sound of her sighs, the way her fingers flexed slightly around his hand, grounded him in the present. For now, he could hold her, protect her, and let her rest and let her find a moment of normalcy before the chaos of the day began.

“You know what sucks?”

Her voice startled him out of his thoughts and he looked down to see her gray-blue eyes looking brighter than they had just moments ago. Perhaps the tea and toast were working their magic. 

“What’s that?”

“I am always sick on Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Last year? Sinus infection. Year before that? Food poisoning. Year before that? Strep. Year before that? Flu. Year before that? Actually, I think I was fine two years in a row there… but the first year in the White House? Flu. Horrible fever. The worst.”

Danny chuckled as he watched her suddenly regain the strength her pregnancy had borrowed from her. 

“What, did you piss off some sort of Thanksgiving deity?”

“Not that I’m aware of. It’s a shame, because I do love Thanksgiving. Big fan of sides.”

He watched her turn green briefly at the mention of side dishes. She reached for a nibble of toast, resolute in her attempt to feel better. 

Eyes closed, she began to sing in an endearingly off-key pitch.

We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing; He chastens and hastens His will to make known; the wicked oppressing now cease from distressing. Sing praises to His name, He forgets not His own.

Danny laughed at the familiar hymn and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear before giving her a quiet round of applause. 

“Very nice!”

She opened her eyes and smiled, sighing deeply.

“You know the President can’t actually pardon a turkey?”

“I had a feeling!”

“He can draft one into military service, though.”

“Might come in handy.”

“Mmm. Okay, I think I’m going to try and brush my teeth. Maybe treat myself to a little shower. The magic toast has momentarily healed me. Suddenly I’m craving cornbread.”

Danny laughed and helped her out of bed slowly. 

“I’ll go make some more magic toast.”

“Mm’kay.” 

He carried the empty plate to the door as CJ gathered her toiletries, Maggie watching her intently. 

“I’ll be back up in just a minute.”

As he turned to leave, she called his name quietly. He stopped, turning to see her standing in just a sports bra and a pair of his shorts. She smiled and glanced down at her stomach. A tiny, barely-there bump was just visible over the waistband. The expression on her face held hope and fear, grief and excitement all at once. Danny imagined his own expression mirrored hers.

“Lots to be thankful for this year, huh,” she whispered. 

Danny’s heart clenched and he fought back the burn of tears in his throat. 

“I’d say,” he whispered back. And even though the weight of everything they’d been through this year pressed warmly and painfully against his chest, he found himself truly and desperately thankful. 

Chapter Text

please… stay…

The shower was approximately three degrees hotter than the surface of the sun, and C.J. let it beat down on the back of her neck like it had been personally sent from God to scrub the last of the nausea from her bones. 

Magic Toast, she thought wryly.

It truly had been magic.

For the past 24 hours she’d barely trusted water, let alone food, but the tiny miracle of lightly buttered toast had revived her just enough for her to pretend to be a functioning adult. Or, at the very least, a functioning woman who was not currently pregnant, exhausted, and profoundly aware that she was about to spend an entire day with Danny Concannon’s enormous family.

She pressed her forehead to the cool tile and exhaled. The steam curled around her like a blanket, and for the first time in hours, she felt almost…normal.

Almost.

Her stomach gave a faint, uneasy wobble.

“Don’t you dare,” she muttered to her midsection. “You let me keep the toast, and I won’t ask for anything else... I need at least, at LEAST, two hours before we kneel before the porcelain altar again.”

A soft knock on the bathroom door made her jump.

“Ceej?” Danny’s voice carried through the wood, warm and amused.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got more toast on standby. Like… pre-sliced, pre-buttered, ready for deployment.”

C.J. smiled despite herself. “Permission to enter is granted.”

She peeked out of the shower curtain as the door opened, and Danny stepped in like he was entering a sacred space, holding a small plate of toast with exaggerated care. 

“You bargaining with God in here or somethin’?”

C.J. snorted. “I’ll bargain with whoever will listen if I can keep this toast down.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “How ya feelin’?”

“Mmm… about sixty-five percent?”

His mouth curved into a cautious smile. “Hey. That’s a marked improvement from earlier this morning.”

She nodded, smiling weakly. “Mm-hmm.” A beat. “Can I have a bite?”

Danny stepped closer, carefully setting the plate on the counter. He tore off a small corner of toast, testing the temperature between his fingers like a man handling nitroglycerin.

“Alright,” he said gently. “Tiny bites. No heroics.”

He held it out to her, and she leaned toward him, water streaming down her back.

She took the bite, chewing slowly, deliberately. She waited for the betrayal.

Nothing happened.

She swallowed.

Still nothing.

Danny’s smile widened with visible relief, like he’d been holding his own breath. “Atta girl.”

She took another bite, then another, each one settling warmly instead of rebelling. The nausea stayed quiet, sulking in the corner.

“Well I’ll be damned,” she murmured. “Still in possession of breakfast.”

She didn’t trust it yet, but she let herself enjoy the victory anyway.

Danny didn’t even realize he was staring until she caught him.

She glanced down at herself, then back up at him, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”

“Hmm?” he said innocently, far too late. His eyes dragged themselves back up to her face with great effort. “Nothin’. Just… conducting an… informal assessment.”

“Of what,” she asked, suspicious.

He tilted his head, considering her like a work of art he’d somehow been allowed to take home. The water had traced new lines over her body. She was softer and rounder in places that she hadn’t been before. Familiar, but different. Miraculous in a quiet, yet terrifying way.

“Well,” he said carefully, “I’m not sayin’ anything definitive yet, but I do believe your curves are… curvier.”

She laughed, a real one, the sound echoing against the tile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m just observant,” he shrugged. “It’s a journalist thing.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now, the tension she’d been carrying loosening its grip just a little. “You’re checking me out while I’m actively trying not to puke?”

“C.J., respectfully,” he said, stepping a little closer, “there is no version of you I’m not gonna look at like I won the damn lottery.”

She clicked her tongue in mock annoyance, but warmth spread through her chest. She shifted under the spray, catching him looking again—this time at her stomach. It was still flat enough to be deniable, but it’d changed just enough that she could tell. They could tell. The awareness of it never left them. Every second was measured against it.

“I know this sounds insane,” she said quietly, voice lowered even though they were alone, “but… I don’t mind feeling like garbage. I really don’t.”

He stilled.

“If this is what it takes,” she went on, throat tight, “if being nauseous and exhausted and generally miserable means the baby is still… with us… still… growing… I’ll take it. I’ll take all of it.”

Danny nodded, eyes shining. “I know.”

“Seriously,” she urged.  “Last time, I wasn’t this sick. Maybe… maybe this time…”

She stopped and shook her head, smiling weakly. 

“God,” she whispered. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

He reached for her then, fully, pulling her carefully against him despite the water, one arm wrapping around her slick shoulders, the other steady at her back.

“Hey… this time’s different,” he murmured into her wet, wavy hair. “Remember what Abbey said? New baby, new story. Doesn’t mean we won’t be scared. Just means we’re not wrong for hoping.”

Her eyes burned suddenly, emotion rushing up fast and sharp. She laughed to cover it, blinking hard.

“Okay,” was all she could manage. 

“No matter what happens, we’ll be okay.”

She nodded, remembering Danny’s steady hand on her back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulders through every surge of pain that terrible night months ago. The way he’d whispered I’ve got you into her hair over and over, like a promise he could make good on. She remembered finding his hand when the pain had come in waves she couldn’t outrun, only endure. She remembered Danny’s voice steady in her ear, reminding her when to inhale, when to let go. How he’d helped her breathe and move when she couldn’t find the rhythm herself, pressed a cool cloth to her neck, stayed awake long after the worst had passed just to make sure she wasn’t alone.

She remembered the days after, too. She remembered how he set alarms for pain medication. How he took notes for her at follow up visits. How he sat beside her in silence when words felt impossible. She remembered the way he’d held her when the grief came in sharp, unexpected waves, never trying to fix it, just anchoring her there in it.

Strong. Steady. Unmoving.

She clung to that now, letting the memory settle into her body the way his hand had that night— firm at her back, anchoring her when everything else felt like it was coming apart physically and emotionally. 

Because when it came to pregnancy, fear came first. It always had. 

The first time, she hadn’t been ready– not really. She’d been stunned and shaken by the news. Overwhelmed by the timing, by the audacity of it. A baby. Now. At her age. In the middle of a life she had spent decades building toward something else. Motherhood had never been part of the plan. Losing her own mother so young had made the whole idea feel distant and abstract, like something meant for other women with steadier roots and fewer sharp edges.

She had only just started letting herself believe in a life with Danny. Daring to imagine the idea of a future that wasn’t entirely self-contained. And then her body had changed the terms without asking.

She’d been scared. Unsure. Resentful in ways she hadn’t known how to admit out loud. It felt like too much, too fast. Like she was being asked to become someone she wasn’t sure she knew how to be. She’d worried, privately and relentlessly, that she would fail Danny. Fail the baby. That love, softness, maternal dependence… were not things she was particularly good at.

And then they’d heard the heartbeat.

A sharp, undeniable sound. Alive and insistent.

Something in her had cracked open in that instant. Fear hadn’t vanished, but temporarily eclipsed. She had been overwhelmed by a sudden, fierce protectiveness she hadn’t seen coming. Love had rushed in where doubt had been, immediate and unarguable. That baby had been hers in a way that felt ancient and absolute.

But then, weeks later, in the dark and quiet safety of their bed, her body had turned on her without warning, folding in on itself, demanding surrender she hadn’t known how to give. And then the baby was gone. 

The guilt had stayed.

Maybe she hadn’t wanted it badly enough. Or maybe she wanted it too much. Maybe she should have prayed more, hoped harder, believed sooner. Maybe it was a punishment for hesitating at all. For being slow to surrender. For not knowing how to want the right things in the right order.

Danny was right. If the worst were to happen again, they would be okay. They’d done it once. They had survived it. They could survive it again.

But, God, she didn’t want to. 

Stay, she silently begged the tiny beloved speck nestled in her womb. Stay. 

“You can do this,” he murmured against her shoulder, voice low and sure. “We can do this.”

“Okay,” she whispered. 

She sniffed and pulled back just enough to look at him.

“Okay stop. Because if I cry then I will puke, and then everyone loses.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

She exhaled shakily, letting herself lean into him for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The shower thundered around them, the world briefly narrowed to steam and warmth and toast crumbs on a plate.

When she finally pulled back, she wiped her face and gave him a crooked smile. “Alright. Crisis averted. For now. Thank you.”

“Of course. I’m gonna go get a dry shirt.” He smiled, brushing a kiss to her temple. “And I’ll keep the toast coming. Take your time. Call me if you need me.”

She nodded and sunk back into the warmth of the water, her hand moving in slow, familiar circles over her belly as if reassuring them both.

_______________

Danny’s childhood bedroom sat at the end of the hall on the second floor of the cozy old farmhouse.

She crept down the hallway, towel wrapped snugly around her damp body, Maggie padding silently at her side. Past a few rooms that looked like they had once belonged to his sisters, then a sunlit sewing room, and finally his parents’ bedroom, she made her way to the door at the very end.

She closed it softly behind her and paused, letting herself take in the room. 

The small bedroom smelled faintly of laundry detergent and old wood. A comforting, lived-in scent that, mercifully, didn’t unsettle her stomach in the slightest. She noticed the double bed they’d been sharing had been neatly made in her absence, the handmade quilt tucked carefully beneath the corners of the mattress. She hoped it was Danny and not Anna who’d gone to the trouble of tidying the bed.

It was funny how, even now, guilt still flickered, how some deeply ingrained part of her worried that Danny’s Catholic parents might disapprove of them, unmarried and sleeping together under their roof. She’d confessed as much to Danny earlier, and he’d only laughed, reminding her gently that his mother had been twenty and unmarried when she was pregnant with him.

A few Danny artifacts caught her eye. Several scuffed baseball trophies lined the dresser, their plaques dulled with time. A model Ford Bronco perched on the windowsill. A green Fighting Irish pennant. A faded AV Club certificate taped to the wall, its edges curling away as if even the paper were tired of holding on.

There were trinkets, too, which seemed surprisingly sentimental for a boy. Souvenirs from childhood vacations. Ticket stubs. Postcards. A handful of seashells gathered into a shallow dish.

Pieces of who he used to be, left behind like quiet landmarks.

She noticed a framed photograph tucked between the bookshelf and the wall, half-hidden, like it had been slipped there and forgotten on purpose. She crouched slowly, careful of the lingering dizziness, and drew it out.

Danny, maybe eight or nine, grinned up at the camera, all freckles and missing teeth, his wild red curls exploding in every direction like he’d lost a fight with a hairbrush and declared it a moral victory. His cheeks were round and sunburned, his smile unguarded in a way adulthood had long since trained out of him. One arm was thrown around the neck of a golden retriever nearly his own size, the dog leaning into him with blind, adoring loyalty.

Maggie’s predecessor, she realized. The same soft eyes. The same patient, beloved expression.

Her chest tightened.

She pictured that same red hair, the same freckles dusting small cheeks. A baby with Danny’s smile and his earnest seriousness, his quiet kindness. A baby who might grow into a child who loved books and baseball and AV equipment. A child who collected ticket stubs and seashells and kept them long after they stopped meaning anything to anyone else. 

She pressed a hand to her bare stomach and willed it to be so.

Stay.

She set her folded clothes on the bed and moved slowly, methodically. Lotion. Deodorant. The careful choreography of getting dressed while listening closely to her body, checking in with it the way she’d learned to do without thinking. Everything still felt… okay. Tired and tender. But okay.

She sat on the edge of the bed to pull on her socks, the mattress creaking softly beneath her weight, and let herself take it all in for just a second. The strangeness of being in the Concannon family home, wrapped in a towel. Stranger still– pregnant at forty-two, standing on the edge of something terrifying and miraculous all at once.

She tugged on a pair of jeans and a soft sweater, choosing comfort over style. The sweater skimmed her middle without clinging, which felt like a small mercy. She shook out her damp hair once and decided to let it do whatever it wanted. Curly was fine. Curly felt like less work.

In the mirror, she looked… okay. Tired, yes. A little washed out. She put on the faintest swipe of mascara and a hint of lipstick. Better. Whatever. 

“Alright,” she said lightly, offering her reflection a half-smile. “Let’s go brave the masses.”

Downstairs there would be food and noise and overlapping conversations, Danny’s family moving around each other with the easy rhythm of people who had been doing this their whole lives. At least Anna and Patrick seemed to like her already, she reminded herself. She didn’t have to be perfect. She didn’t have to explain anything. She just had to show up.

She took a breath, straightened her sweater, and opened the door, ready enough.

_______________

She made her way down the narrow staircase, one careful step at a time, the old wood creaking softly beneath her feet. The house felt awake now in that gentle, anticipatory way—low voices drifting from somewhere below, the muted clatter of pans, the hum of something simmering on the stove.

They’d arrived late the night before, so she didn’t quite get a chance to appreciate or take in her surroundings. The walls of the hallway were crowded with history. Framed family photos lined them in cheerful, unapologetic abundance. She smiled at the sepia-toned portraits of stern men and women in wool coats, wedding pictures from the forties and fifties, school photos with crooked smiles and cowlicks that looked eerily familiar. Generations of Concannons stared back at her, loved and documented and remembered. Freckles, smiles, unmistakable red, curly hair. There were children on tractors, babies held on porches, couples posed proudly in front of the same farmhouse she was standing in now.

She passed by the mudroom, smiling faintly at the line of work boots and rubber-soled shoes arranged with practiced chaos along the wall. Coats hung heavy with the smell of cold air and earth. A well worn football waiting to be played with. 

Moving downstairs through the living room, she spotted hand-carved wooden birds, framed samplers with careful stitching, a painted sign that read Bless This Home in looping, earnest script. Antiques and heirlooms sat comfortably beside one another—nothing precious for the sake of it, everything used and loved. A braided rug softened the floor beneath her sock-clad feet. A desk cluttered with what appeared to be Christmas cards in progress. A piano like the one from her own childhood living room.

And then she stepped into the kitchen.

Warmth met her immediately—the heat from the oven, the smell of coffee and toast and something savory that made her stomach roll just slightly before settling again. Anna stood at the counter, moving with quiet purpose, a dish towel slung over her shoulder. Patrick sat at the table with a mug, reading glasses perched low on his nose, concentrating fiercely on a crossword puzzle. And then there was sweet, ever-helpful Danny, standing between them, attempting to set his parents up with a cellphone.

She’d been there less than twenty-four hours, and already it felt like home.

Anna noticed C.J. first, a wide grin spreading across her face.

“There she is! Good morning sweetheart! Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes,” C.J. lied easily, making eye contact with Danny. “I did. Thank you. Anna, your home is so beautiful.” 

“Oh goodness, it’s an awful mess is what it is, but thank you honey that’s very nice of you to say!” 

Danny leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to C.J.’s cheek as he passed her a mug. “Tea,” he murmured. “Not too strong.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, wrapping her hands around the warmth.

C.J. slipped into a seat at the kitchen table at Anna’s urging and smiled, admiring the charming chaos. 

“C.J. honey there are muffins in that basket on the table you help yourself! Can I make you some eggs? Bacon?”

Her stomach roiled at the thought, but she smiled politely. 

“Oh, I’m fine! Danny made me some toast and… I’d like to save my appetite for what I can only imagine will be a feast this evening.”

“Okay, sweetheart! Well you just let me know!” 

Danny slid into the seat next to her and rested his hand lovingly on her thigh, giving her a reassuring squeeze. 

Anna turned back to the counter, peering suspiciously at something bubbling on the stove. “Patrick, did you touch the stove down?”

“I haven’t touched the stove in 25 years,” Patrick said without looking up from his crossword. “I learned my lesson.”

“And yet somehow,” Anna muttered, lifting the lid, “this still feels like your fault.”

Danny shook his head in exasperation. “Here we go…”

C.J. suppressed a giggle. 

Patrick leaned back against his chair, mug in hand, already warming up like he’d been waiting for an audience.
“Now if this weather holds,” he said, nodding toward the window like it had personally promised him something, “we might actually get a decent bloom this year. Last spring? Disaster. One late frost and—” he made a slicing motion with his hand “—there went half the cherries.”

Anna hummed absently in response, already half-turned toward the ringing phone. “Hello,” she answered, tucking it between her shoulder and ear. “Oh! Hi, sweetheart.”

C.J. smiled into her tea as Patrick continued, undeterred.
“I’m tellin’ you, the trees know. They wait all year, get their hopes up, and then bam. Nature pulls the rug out from under ‘em.”

“Patrick, hush,” Anna said into the phone, frowning slightly. “Hold on... what recipe card are you using?”

She gestured vaguely toward the drawer by the fridge, then paused, patted her pockets, and sighed. “Where are my glasses…”

Danny leaned closer to C.J., his voice low and conspiratorial. “This is the point of no return.”

Anna found the glasses perched on top of her head and pushed them down with a muttered, “Oh honestly,” before opening the drawer and pulling out a stack of well-worn index cards.

“Okay, read me the top line again,” she said into the phone. “No… honey, the capital T is tablespoon.”

Patrick shook his head. “Why don’t you just tell her to come make it here?”

Anna covered the receiver. “Because, honey, we do not have enough oven space.”

“We could if you didn’t insist on roasting three different vegetables separately.”

“They each need different temperatures!”

Danny snorted before he could stop himself, quickly disguising it as a cough. C.J. pressed her lips together, eyes bright, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

“And anyway,” Patrick went on, warming to his theme, “Keller’s farm down the road is tryin’ somethin’ new this year. Did I tell you this, Bud? Tom says with the price of gas the way it is now…”

C.J. watched it all unfold, warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the tea. The easy rhythm of them. The long-practiced dance of affection and argument and humor. She caught Danny watching her watch them, his expression soft, knowing.

“Scared, yet?” he murmured.

She shook her head, unable to stop smiling. “No.”

_______________

Patrick pushed back from the table with a satisfied huff, folding his newspaper under his arm. “Alright, Bud. If we’re gonna check the fence line, we should do it before that ground gets any softer.”

Danny glanced at C.J., then at his mother. “Will you ladies be okay if we run out for just a minute?”

Anna waved him off without looking up. “Go. You’ll just be underfoot in here anyway.”

Danny leaned down, brushed a quick kiss to C.J.’s temple. “You okay?”

She smiled up at him. “Mhmm! Don’t fall in the mud.”

“No promises,” Patrick said, already halfway out the door.

The back door thudded shut behind them, leaving the kitchen noticeably quieter. The house exhaled.

C.J. hovered uncertainly for a second. “I can help with something Anna,” she offered. “Really. I’m very good at being useful.”

Anna laughed. “Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second. But right now, what you can do is sit. More tea?”

“Yes, please,” C.J. said, relieved.

Anna poured two mugs and gestured toward the table. “I’ll join ya. I’ve got ten minutes before anything else needs fussing over.”

They sat across from one another, steam curling between them. Anna wrapped both hands around her mug and sighed contentedly.

“Patrick is so happy to have Danny home. Not even sure Patrick really needs the help, ya know? Just likes having his buddy to tag along and chat with. Of course Danny’s always been an enthusiastic helper,” she said with a smile. “Even as a kid. Wouldn’t leave a room without asking if anyone needed anything.”

C.J. smiled. “That sounds like him.”

“He once tried to organize a sign-up sheet for dish duty at Thanksgiving,” Anna added. “He was twelve. Patrick told him to go outside and be normal.”

C.J. laughed, the sound easy and genuine. It surprised her a little, how natural it felt, sitting here like this.

“What’s your family doing today?” Anna asked with a warm smile. “What’s Thanksgiving usually like at the Cregg house? Danny told me you have two brothers?” 

C.J. hesitated just a beat, her throat tight. 

“Yeah. Yes, I have two older brothers and uh… well my family is not… quite as close as yours. My oldest brother Michael and his family are celebrating at his wife’s family’s house in South Carolina. And… My brother Brian and his partner are with their daughter in New York and uh… my father…”

She trailed off, fingers tightening slightly around her mug. She cleared her throat, pressing on past the ache in her heart. 

“My father is… currently inpatient at a long-term care facility in Dayton and um… well, my stepmother and stepsister should be visiting him sometime today.”

Anna nodded, something soft and knowing in her expression, and didn’t press. C.J.’s shoulders lowered about an inch at the small mercy. 

_______________

They talked for a few minutes—about Danny as a boy, about the farm, about nothing in particular. Anna had a way of listening that made C.J. feel unhurried, unexamined. Seen, but gently. It tugged at something deep and familiar. C.J. missed her mother every single day, but today the absence felt closer to the surface, stirred by Anna’s quiet maternal attention.

She reached for her mug again, more out of habit than need, and took a careful sip.

The warmth that usually settled her stomach didn’t. Instead, something rolled. Slow at first, then unmistakable. A hollow, rising sensation that made her pause mid-swallow.

C.J. set the mug down a little too deliberately.

“Honey?” Anna asked, already watching her.

She looked up and tried to smile, her vision blurring a bit. 

“C.J.? Sweetheart, you look pale all of a sudden.”

C.J. shook her head as if denying it would make the nausea disappear. 

Anna moved from her seat, around the table to stand next to C.J., and bent closer to her, feeling her forehead. 

“Honey, look at me. Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” C.J. said automatically. Then she frowned, hand flattening against her abdomen. “I just—”

The kitchen suddenly felt way too warm. Her mouth filled with saliva and her heart kicked hard against her ribs.

Oh no. 

She swallowed, eyes flicking around the room, not quite panic yet, but close. “Anna… I’m so sorry,” she said, voice low and tight. “I… think I’m going to be sick.”

Anna didn’t hesitate.

“Okay,” she said calmly, already moving. “That’s alright. C’mere, I’ve got you.”

C.J. pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping too loudly against the floor. She took one step, then another, eyes darting down the hallway in a frantic search for a door—where the hell was the powder room—but the nausea surged hard and fast, cutting off the thought entirely.

“No—” She slapped a hand over her mouth, panic flaring. “I can’t—”

“I know,” Anna said gently, firm now, one hand steady at C.J.’s back, the other guiding her by the elbow. “Right here. Sink’s fine.”

The world narrowed to the few steps to the sink. The smell of coffee turned sharp, unbearable. C.J. barely registered the cool metal beneath her palms before she was pitching forward, breath hitching as her body took over completely.

She retched violently, shoulders shaking, humiliation burning hot beneath her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, mortified by the sound of it, by the loss of control, by the awful intimacy of being this undone in someone else’s kitchen.

Anna stayed exactly where she was.

“There you go,” she murmured, one hand braced solidly between C.J.’s shoulder blades, the other sweeping her curls back from her face without hesitation. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Another wave hit, stronger than the last, and C.J. clung to the edge of the sink, knuckles white, breath coming in short, ragged pulls between heaves.

“I’m so—” she tried, only for it to dissolve into another rough retch.

“No, baby, you don’t need to be sorry,” Anna said softly, without missing a beat. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

When it finally eased, C.J. stayed folded over the sink, shaking, forehead nearly touching the cool metal. Her eyes burned. Her throat ached. She felt wrung out and painfully exposed, like every protective layer had been stripped away.

Anna rubbed slow, steady circles on her back. “Take a breath, sweetheart,” she said. “Just breathe.”

“I’m so sorry,” C.J. whispered, the apology automatic, reflexive.

“No, no, no…” Anna shook her head gently. “Honey, between twenty-five years as a nurse, six children, and fourteen grandchildren—this is nothin’.”

C.J. huffed a small, pitiful laugh, shoulders still trembling. As much as she wanted to disappear upstairs and pretend this hadn’t happened, she let herself stay right where she was. Let herself be mothered.

Anna remained steady at her back, palm warm and sure between her shoulders. Is this where Danny learned it? C.J. thought dimly.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Easy now.”

C.J. nodded weakly and forced a breath in through her nose, then another. Her hands trembled against the metal of the sink as she reached, out of habit, for words—something reasonable, something that could explain this away.

“I… I think maybe it was something I ate on the plane,” she said hoarsely. “Jet lag, maybe.”

Anna hummed softly, a sound of acknowledgment rather than agreement. “Mmm. Could be.”

But when she resumed rubbing C.J.’s back, it was slower now. More deliberate.

With her free hand, Anna opened a nearby drawer and pulled out a small tube of peppermint lip balm.

“Here, honey. See if this helps.”

She uncapped it and held it gently beneath C.J.’s nose. “Breathe in.”

The sharp, clean scent cut through the heaviness almost immediately. The smell of food receded, the world steadying just a bit.

“Thank you,” C.J. whispered.

“Of course,” Anna said. “Little trick I picked up. Helps with nausea. Helped in nursing school… and when I was pregnant with Danny.”

C.J.’s breath caught.

Her eyes lifted to Anna’s face.

Anna met her gaze, her expression soft and knowing. Her eyebrows lifted in a quiet, careful question. An offering, not a demand. Is the nausea what I think it is?

Tears slipped down C.J.’s cheeks as she exhaled, her chin dipping in the barest nod.

Yes, she silently told her child’s grandmother. Yes. And I’m scared.

Anna’s mouth curved into the gentlest of smiles, her own eyes shining now. She reached up and brushed a tear from C.J.’s cheek with her thumb.

“How far along are you, baby?” she whispered.

C.J.’s shoulders sagged with relief, like she’d finally stopped holding her breath.

“Ten weeks,” she said. “Ten weeks and three days.”

Anna nodded, tears slipping free now, her smile wide and careful all at once.
“I bet you know how many hours, minutes, and seconds too, don’t you honey.”

C.J. let out a small, broken sob, a smile tugging at her mouth despite herself.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

Anna squeezed her hands, sniffing quietly.

C.J. thought of the envelope that had arrived months ago. Cream-colored, her name written in careful, looping script she hadn’t yet learned to recognize. She and Danny had opened it together at the kitchen counter, her hands already shaking.

Inside had been a single sheet of paper. No platitudes. No instructions. Just warmth.

Claudia Jean,

Honey, I’m so sorry for your loss. 

Your little one's story did not end. It continues on through you and Danny. You are allowed to miss them today, tomorrow, for eternity.
You don’t have to be brave. You don’t have to be okay. If all you manage is breathing for awhile, that's okay.

Holding you close in my heart.

Anna Concannon 

C.J. had pressed that note to her chest and cried harder than she had in days. Had folded it carefully and tucked it into her nightstand drawer, like something sacred. Proof that someone she hadn’t even met yet had seen her pain and hadn’t looked away. 

“Oh, honey,” Anna said softly, stepping forward and drawing her into a gentle hug.

C.J. let herself go, resting her forehead against Anna’s shoulder, held there with the same quiet certainty that had lived in those handwritten words. Cautious hope and grief braided together, neither pushing the other aside.

Another wave rolled through her with almost no warning, but deeper this time, heavier, pulling low in her body like a tide she hadn’t agreed to.

C.J. stiffened in Anna’s arms.

“Oh—” She pulled back abruptly, one hand flying to her mouth, the other bracing on the counter. “I’m— I’m sorry—”

Anna was already moving. “Okay, sweetheart. Back to the sink.”

C.J. barely made it before her body took over again. She leaned forward, breath hitching, shoulders shaking as the nausea surged hard and fast. The cautious hope she’d been holding flickered, replaced by the raw, physical reality of it—this relentless, unglamorous misery. This is fine, she tried to tell herself. This means the baby is still with me. 

Anna stayed close, steady as ever. One hand rubbed slow circles between C.J.’s shoulder blades, the other gathered her hair again without a word, as natural as breathing.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “You’re doing just fine. Just let it pass.”

The kitchen door opened behind them.

Oh, good. Danny, she thought.

“Ma?” a woman’s voice called, tired but bright. “Happy Thanksgiving—”

Nope. Not Danny.

Sarah Concannon, Danny’s youngest sister, appeared in the doorway, hospital scrubs rumpled from a long night, hair pulled back in a messy knot, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She took in the scene in half a second: C.J. bent over the sink, Anna’s hand firm at her back, the quiet intensity of it all.

“Oh,” Sarah said, already setting her bag down. “Uh oh!”

She crossed the room without urgency, pulling a clean dish towel from a drawer and running it under cold water. Then she grabbed a handful of ice from the freezer, wrapped it quickly, and pressed it gently to the inside of C.J.’s wrist.

“Here ya go,” she said. “Cold helps sometimes. Breathe through your nose if you can.”

C.J. managed a weak, grateful nod, still catching her breath.

Sarah tilted her head, eyeing the scene with professional curiosity softened by humor. “Danny cooking again?”

A strangled little laugh escaped C.J. despite herself. 

Sarah smiled back, squeezing C.J.’s forearm. “Hi, I’m Sarah. Nice to finally meet you.”

C.J. wiped her mouth with shaking fingers and forced herself upright just enough to look at her. “Hi,” she said hoarsely. “Nice to meet you too, Sarah. I’ve… heard a lot about you.”

“All good things, I assume,” Sarah replied with a grin.

“Mostly,” C.J. said, breathless, and they all laughed softly together—an oddly tender little pocket of normalcy forming right there in the kitchen. 

The sink was pristine again in moments, Anna and Sarah moving in quiet sync, all muscle memory and nurselike calm. 

Danny came in through the back door with a rush of cold air. 

“Dad says if the turkey’s dry it’s because you don’t respect the bird,” he called, already shrugging out of his coat.

Then he saw her.

C.J. at the sink. Anna close at her side. Sarah by the counter with a towel and ice like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Danny stopped short.

No one said anything for a half second — long enough for him to take it all in and begin to worry.

Sarah glanced up and smiled as if nothing was amiss.

“Hi, buddy! Happy Thanksgiving!”

Anna clocked the look on Danny’s face immediately and shook her head as he crossed the room.

“She’s okay, honey,” she said gently, heading him off. “Poor thing’s just not allowed to keep her toast, apparently.”

Danny came to C.J.’s side anyway, his hand settling at her back like it belonged there.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Again? You alright?”

C.J. nodded, managing a small smile as she straightened carefully, cheeks flushed, and tucked her curls behind her ears.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just lost a very brief, very… undignified argument with your kitchen.”

Danny let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and smiled. 

“Oh yeah?” he said lightly. “Was it Sarah’s pumpkin pie?” 

C.J. let out a quiet chuckle. 

Sarah snorted from the counter, winking at her brother. “Hey, that was one time!” 

Anna brushed past them on her way back to the stove, her hand warm and brief at Danny’s arm.

She placed a loving hand to C.J.’s cheek, then to Danny’s, and something passed between them — a quiet understanding, careful and tender.

Anna smiled at her only son. Not big. Not celebratory. Just… knowing.

Danny swallowed and nodded once in return, his jaw tight, his eyes shining.

Patrick’s voice floated in from the mudroom, already mid opinion about oven temperatures and “how his mother used to do it,” and Anna turned back toward the stove with a fond shake of her head. The kitchen filled up again with clatter, voices, the low hum of a family that had never known how to be quiet.

In the middle of it, Danny stayed where he was. His hand lingered at C.J.’s back, warm and steady.

She looked up at him and found his eyes already on her... soft, relieved, full of a thousand unspoken questions he wasn’t asking. Not yet.

I’m okay, her smile told him. We’re okay.

He nodded once, barely there, his thumb brushing a quiet circle through the fabric of her sweater.

_______________

The house filled up slowly, then somehow all at once.

Coats piled in the mudroom. Voices overlapped in the hallway. The door opened and closed and opened again. Danny’s sisters arrived in twos and threes, arms full of casseroles and pies, children tumbling in behind them like dropped marbles. Names flew through the air. Laughter followed close behind.

C.J. watched it all from the edge of the kitchen, mug of tea warming her hands, feeling oddly anchored in the middle of it. Anna moved through the chaos with practiced ease, greeting everyone, redirecting traffic, pressing kisses to cheeks. Patrick held court near the doorway, already retelling the same farm story to a new audience.

Danny disappeared into the noise and reemerged minutes later with a toddler on his shoulders and a niece clinging to each leg. He let them climb him like a jungle gym, pretended to stagger under the weight of it, collapsing theatrically onto the living room rug to shrieks of laughter. 

C.J. smiled until her cheeks hurt.

Every so often, across the room, Danny’s eyes would find hers, checking in, grounding himself. And each time she nodded back, small and sure. I’m okay. We’re okay.

Anna caught C.J. just as she was rinsing her mug.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, touching her elbow. “Would you mind coming upstairs with me for a minute?”

C.J. blinked, a little surprised, then nodded. “Oh! Sure.”

Upstairs, away from the chaos, the house felt blissfully quiet. Anna led her into the front bedroom, the one with lace curtains and a heavy wooden dresser worn smooth at the edges. Family photographs were taped around the mirror, crowding its frame and leaving only a small oval of glass to catch one’s reflection.

Anna moved to the dresser and opened the top drawer. She reached inside, rummaged through what looked like a small treasure trove of keepsakes, and lifted out a velvet pouch, soft and faded with age.

She turned back to C.J., her expression gentle but steady.

“Patrick’s mother gave this to me,” she said. “When I was pregnant with Danny.”

C.J.’s breath caught, just slightly.

Anna loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents into her palm revealing a small, time-worn medal on a thin chain. The metal was dulled with age, the image softened from years of being touched and held.

“It’s Saint Gerard Majella,” Anna explained quietly. “Patron saint of expectant mothers.” She smiled, a little self-conscious. “I’m not much for fuss or ceremony. But… when Patrick and I found out we were expecting Danny—”
She paused, fingers curling slightly around the chain.
“After we’d experienced a loss of our own… she pressed it into my hand and told me to keep it close.”

Anna looked up again, eyes shining but steady.

“Said it wasn’t about guarantees,” she finished softly. “Just… company.”

C.J. didn’t speak right away.

Her hand rose instinctively to her chest, fingers pressing flat over her sternum as if to steady the swell of emotion there. Of all the things she’d expected from this visit, this—this quiet offering of trust—had not been one of them.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Anna…”

Anna’s eyes filled, but she smiled through it, warm and unwavering. “I’d like you to have it,” she said softly. “If you want it.”

C.J. nodded immediately, voice thick. “I’d be honored.”

Anna stepped closer and gently pressed the medal into C.J.’s palm, her fingers closing around it for just a beat longer than necessary.

C.J. stared down at the medal, rubbing her thumb over the softened image of Saint Gerard. She pictured Anna doing the same all those years ago—young, hopeful, terrified—willing Danny to stay, whispering the same silent plea C.J. now carried in her own body.

“It’s… it’s beautiful. Thank you.” C.J. swallowed, the words catching in her throat. “This means more than I know how to say.”

She tried to fasten it herself, fingers unsteady as they fumbled with the tiny clasp. After a moment, she let out a quiet, embarrassed breath.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Would you…?”

Anna nodded, her bright blue eyes shining. “Of course. Turn around for me, sweetheart.”

C.J. did, lifting her dark curls out of the way as Anna’s fingers worked carefully at the clasp. Her touch was sure, practiced, the same hands that had soothed fevers and scraped knees and restless babies in the dark. When the medal settled against her skin, cool and light, something in C.J. loosened.

Anna’s hands rested briefly at her shoulders before she gave them a gentle squeeze.

They both looked up then, catching their reflection in the mirror. C.J. found herself framed by generations of red-haired Concannons smiling out from curled photographs and taped corners. Boys in baseball caps. Girls in communion dresses. A younger Danny with freckles and a crooked grin.

Anna met her eyes in the glass.

“Looks like it belongs with you,” she said, voice soft but certain.

C.J. smiled back, tears shining, one hand closing around the small medal over her heart.

“I’m scared all the time,” C.J. admitted quietly.

Anna nodded, like that made perfect sense. “I know baby... oh, I know.”

_______________

They slipped out just before dinner, the house humming behind them. Voices rising, doors opening and closing, the clatter of dishes gathering momentum. Outside, the quiet farm felt like another world entirely.

The late afternoon light stretched long and honeyed across the fields. Bare branches etched the sky, the earth dark and patient beneath them. Somewhere in the distance, a gate creaked softly in the breeze. The air smelled clean and cold with just a hint of wood smoke.

Danny walked beside her without rushing, his shoulder brushing hers every few steps like a quiet check-in. When they reached the edge of the field, he slowed, then stopped, turning toward her.

“You feeling okay?” he asked gently.

C.J. wasn’t sure if he meant physically or emotionally, but mercifully, her answer was the same either way. She nodded. “Yeah. I think so.” She smiled, small but real. 

They stood there for a moment, the quiet settling around them. Then he spoke again, softer.

“Hey... if dinner gets overwhelming, if the smells or the noise are too much… we don’t have to do it. We can sit out here. I’ll bring you a plate of buttered toast in the shape of a turkey. Or we can skip food entirely. No explanations required.”

She laughed, warmth blooming in her chest at the mental image of Danny carefully carving a piece of toast into the shape of a turkey. 

She looked at him then, really looked at him. At the care in his face, the way he’d already thought it through.

“You’d do that?” she asked, though she knew the answer.

“Mhmm. See, I figure the best way to go about it is to toast the bread first… use a paring knife to get the shape right without losing too much of the bread…”

She laughed, clicking her tongue at his antics.

“God, you’re ridiculous.”

“Hopelessly devoted,” he corrected.

Her laughter softened into something quieter. She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his, holding on.

“I’m really thankful,” she said. “For today. For your family. For… you.”

He squeezed her hand. “Yeah. Me too.”

They walked a little farther, the ground crunching beneath their boots, until she slowed again. Danny followed her lead, stopping when she did. She took a breath, then another, and rested a hand lightly over her belly with more instinct than intention.

Danny noticed immediately.

Without a word, he slid his hand there too, warm and sure, his palm spread gently against her sweater. The gesture was reverent, unassuming. Like he was saying hello. Like he was keeping watch.

They stood that way for a moment, the world wide and quiet around them.

She leaned into him, resting her forehead against his cheek, letting his steadiness ground her. For just a moment, she let herself imagine this place a year from now—Danny still beside her, their little one bundled between them, breath puffing white in the cold. She let herself hope. She let herself smile.

Her other hand settled over Danny’s, the three of them held there together, fragile and hopeful, as the light dipped lower over the fields and the sound of her future waited for them inside.

They walked back toward the house hand in hand. She caught Danny looking at her from the corner of her eye.

“Were you wearing a necklace earlier?”

She followed his gaze to where the thin chain disappeared beneath the neckline of her sweater. One hand rose instinctively, fingers finding the small, cool weight resting over her heart.

C.J. smiled, slow and tender, and shook her head.

“Nope,” she said softly. “It’s new.”

_______________

By the time dinner was ready, the house had expanded to meet the moment.

Tables were dragged in from the dining room and the den, mismatched heights bridged by folded towels and stubborn optimism. Extra chairs appeared from nowhere. Platters crowded every available surface piled high with turkey, potatoes, casseroles whose names C.J. didn’t know but whose smells felt like her own midwestern history. The room buzzed with overlapping conversations, laughter ricocheting off the walls, forks clinking, someone arguing loudly about gravy consistency.

C.J. found herself tucked between Danny and Sarah’s girlfriend, Savannah. 

“First Concannon Thanksgiving?” Savannah asked, her grin knowing and delighted.

C.J. laughed and nodded, eyebrows lifting as two cousins arm-wrestled for the turkey’s wishbone. Bets were loudly placed between brothers-in-law over the Patriots versus Steelers game. Sisters traded good-natured barbs from opposite ends of the table. Children shrieked with joy at the promise of snow flurries after supper. Maggie barked and whined at every scrap that almost hit the floor.

It was sheer chaos. Everything was big, noisy, and bordering on overwhelming, yet it was soaked through with love.

C.J. felt it settle into her chest, warm and dizzying, and thought distantly that she had never sat at a table quite like this before.

“I remember my first Concannon family gathering,” Savannah said with a reassuring smile. “It’s… a lot. But they’re the nicest people you’ll ever meet.”

“Yes,” C.J. agreed easily, smiling warmly at Anna as she took her seat at the opposite end of the table.

Savannah leaned a little closer, lowering her voice. “And for what it’s worth... I’m still new here,” she murmured, glancing around the chaos, “but I’ve never seen Danny this happy. Not even close.”

C.J. smiled and turned to look at Danny, who was mid-story now, hands moving as he animatedly explained something to one of his brothers-in-law. His face was open and bright, laughter easy, like he belonged exactly where he was.

A fierce, sudden rush of love and gratitude swept through her. For him, for this life, for the quiet way he kept showing up without ever asking for credit.

She reached under the table and gave his knee a gentle squeeze.

Danny turned to her instantly, concern already flickering across his face. “You okay?” he asked softly, eyes scanning her like he was bracing to catch her vomit with his bare hands.

She chuckled, shaking her head. “I’m fine,” she said, meeting his gaze. Then, quieter, truer: “We’re fine.”

His mouth curved into a smile just for her, relief settling back into his eyes, and he squeezed her knee in return before turning back to the conversation — still close, still tethered.

Patrick stood at the head of the table and cleared his throat.

It took three tries.

“Alright,” he called, voice firm but fond. “Alright, alright… can we rein it in for thirty seconds?”

Groans and laughter followed, but the room gradually settled. Patrick bowed his head, and everyone followed suit, some reverent, some curious, some peeking.

He said a short prayer. Simple. Grateful. Thanking God for food, for family, for another year together. For health, where it existed. For strength, where it had been needed.

When he finished, there was a soft chorus of amens.

Then Patrick looked up, eyes twinkling. “Before we eat or... before someone steals a roll... I’d like us to go around the table. Say what you’re thankful for.”

A collective groan rose up, followed quickly by laughter.

One by one, the answers came. Health. Jobs. Kids. Being home. The farm. The weather holding out just long enough. Someone cracked a joke about being thankful for elastic waistbands.

C.J.’s heart began to pound as the circle crept closer.

Danny glanced at her. Then again.

Their eyes met.

A question. A breath. A quiet, mutual yes.

Her turn came too quickly. 

C.J. swallowed, fingers tightening around her water glass. “I’m… I’m thankful,” she began, her voice steadier than she felt, “for this family.” She gestured helplessly around the table, eyes shining. “For how generous and loving you all are. For being welcomed so completely.”

There were murmurs of affection, a few smiles thrown her way.

She looked at Danny, the emotion climbing faster now. “And I’m thankful for Danny. For his kindness. For his steadiness. For loving me the way he does.”

Her voice faltered. She tried to continue, but the words tangled, caught somewhere behind her ribs.

She squeezed Danny’s knee under the table.

“You want me to?” he asked softly.

All eyes shifted to him as she nodded, swiping at her face with her turkey printed napkin.

“I’m thankful,” Danny said, voice thickening despite his best efforts, “for all of you. For the love and support you showed us this past summer. For not asking questions we weren’t ready to answer. For showing up anyway.”

He took a breath. Then another.

“And because of that… because of all of that… we wanted to tell you…”

C.J. reached for his hand, smiling gently at the tears in his eyes. 

“It’s, early yet…” he choked out, huffing a self conscious laugh at his emotion. “Sorry…” 

C.J. squeezed his hand, her gaze falling to Anna. Anna nodded gently, urging her on silently, her hand over her mouth, tears falling. 

The room was silent, everyone with bated breath. 

“It’s early,” CJ choked out, with a smile, taking over for Danny. “ But, we’re thankful… that… I’m pregnant.” 

For a single heartbeat, no one moved.

Then the room exploded.

Gasps flew down the table like a ripple. Someone let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. A shriek came from the far end, followed by applause that started with one pair of hands and quickly became many. Chairs scraped back as people stood, voices overlapping, questions tumbling over one another.

“Oh my God—”
“Are you serious?”
“No way!”
“That’s—oh honey!”

Anna pressed both hands to her mouth, crying openly now, her shoulders shaking as Patrick stared in stunned silence beside her, eyes wide, as if the words needed a moment longer to reach him.

Sarah laughed through her tears, already shaking her head, a knowing smile breaking across her face. One of the sisters burst into happy sobs. Another leaned across the table to grab C.J.’s hand. Someone clapped so hard they knocked their water glass to the floor.

C.J. sat frozen in the middle of it, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and joy, her eyes shining as she took it all in. The noise washed over her. Loud and raucous and beautiful.

Danny leaned in then, pressing a kiss to her cheek, warm and lingering.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice thick and unsteady. “I love you.”

She turned toward him, overwhelmed by the sight of his smile and nodded, unable to find words.

He rested his forehead briefly against her temple, a private moment carved out of the chaos.

“Wow,” he breathed, half a laugh, half a prayer.

Around them, the Concannon kitchen roared on. Cheering, crying, laughing, already planning and speculating and celebrating.

And in the middle of it all, C.J. let herself sit there and feel it.

The noise.
The love.
The hope.

For the first time in a long while, she didn’t flinch away from the future.

She smiled and held on.