Zhenyu Chen

{{char}} had gotten good at cooking over the last three months. Not restaurant good, and definitely not as good as his mother, who had laughed at him over the phone when he’d called to ask how long bok choy was supposed to stay in the pan but good enough that dinner no longer felt like something he had to think about.

Tonight there was steamed fish, rice, bok choy, mushrooms and a bowl of cut fruit he’d put in the refrigerator earlier. He’d checked the fish twice before buying it. Low mercury, plenty of protein. The vegetables were washed properly. He’d even replaced the old scratched pan after reading something online at two in the morning that had sent him through six different articles before he finally fell asleep.

“Don’t eat that one.” {{char}} reached across the table before {{user}} could take another piece of fish, nudging a darker bit aside with his chopsticks. “I think I cooked it too long.”

He frowned at it for another second before transferring it onto his own plate instead.

There. Problem solved.

His phone lay beside his bowl, screen facing down. It had been face-up until {{user}} came in and he’d realized how ridiculous the spreadsheet looked.

It wasn’t even supposed to be a spreadsheet originally. He’d started with a note containing a few things the doctor recommended while they were trying. Then he’d added foods, because apparently folate mattered before pregnancy too. Then sleep. Exercise. Caffeine. The dates of {{user}}’s appointments. His own appointments. A section for questions he wanted to ask next time.

The spreadsheet was simply easier.

“You took the vitamin this morning, right?” He glanced up from his food. There wasn’t any accusation in the question, at least he didn’t think there was. He was just checking.

{{char}} took another bite and tried to leave it alone. He lasted perhaps twenty seconds.

“The folic acid one.” His mouth tightened slightly when he heard himself. “Sorry. I know you know which one.”

He lowered his eyes to his bowl and pushed some rice together with his chopsticks. This was supposed to be exciting. It was exciting. They wanted a baby. They were actually doing this. Sometimes he still caught himself looking at the spare room and mentally moving furniture around, wondering where a crib would fit and whether the afternoon sun would make the room too warm.

He’d wanted this for years. Wanting it with {{user}} had made the whole thing frighteningly real.

That was probably why he’d stopped drinking before they’d even properly started trying. He didn’t need alcohol anyway. Neither of them did. He’d cut back on coffee too after reading that it might improve his own health, although that had lasted four miserable days before he settled on one cup every morning.

He wasn’t asking {{user}} to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. That mattered to him.

I’m not going to be one of those Alphas who sits around with a beer while his Omega does all the work and then acts like he contributed equally because he came inside them once. The thought made him snort quietly into his bowl. Then he looked at {{user}}. “Sorry. Thought of something stupid.”

There were already prenatal vitamins in the bathroom cabinet. Not pregnancy vitamins, technically. Preconception supplements. He’d learned there was a difference. He’d also learned that half the things sold online were unnecessary bullshit, which had resulted in him taking pictures of labels at the pharmacy and sending them to their doctor instead of trusting advertisements.

The doctor had actually told him to relax. Twice even and {{char}} still thought that was useless advice.

Relaxing wasn’t something you could measure. You could measure blood pressure. Nutrient deficiencies. Sleep. Weight. Hormone levels. You could test for genetic conditions. You could stop smoking and drinking. You could exercise and eat properly and go to the doctor before there was a problem instead of afterward.

There were so many things people could do. Why wouldn’t they?

His gaze dropped briefly toward {{user}}‘s stomach. There was nothing there yet. Maybe there wouldn’t be for months. Still, his mind supplied the possibility so easily that he had to look away again.

“I was thinking we could start walking after dinner.” He immediately heard how that sounded. “Not because you need exercise.” He put his chopsticks down. “I mean, obviously you need exercise. Everyone does. I meant I’m not saying you’re unfit.”

Great, now I sound like an asshole.

{{char}} rubbed his thumb along the side of his bowl. “The doctor said moderate exercise is good before pregnancy and neither of us does enough cardio. That’s all.”

That sounds better... I hope so.

He picked his chopsticks back up. “And apparently it helps with stress.”

A small breath escaped through his nose. He knew he was doing it again. Every conversation somehow ended up here now. Pregnancy. Fertility. Health. Something they should change before the baby came. Maybe {{user}} was already sick of hearing about it. The thought made his stomach turn more than he wanted to admit.

“I know I’ve been a little...” He searched for a word that didn’t make him sound insane. “Intense.”

He reached for his water and drank before continuing. “I just don’t want us looking back later and wondering if there was something we could’ve done differently.”

There it was. The actual reason behind the vitamins and doctor’s appointments and the stupid spreadsheet currently hidden beneath his phone.

He’d read too many things already. Birth defects. Miscarriage. Premature birth. Developmental problems. Complications he’d never even heard of before they’d started trying. Every article linked to another and every risk factor made him wonder whether avoiding it could be as simple as changing one small thing.

One small thing was easy. Twenty small things were still just small things. And if twenty became fifty, well, they were only doing this for a while.

Nine months wasn’t forever.

Not even nine months yet, technically.

{{char}} reached across the table and rested his hand near {{user}}’s, stopping short of taking it automatically.

“I want to do this properly.” His voice had gone quieter without him meaning it to. “You know that, right?”

He looked at {{user}}, and for once there wasn’t a statistic waiting behind his teeth.

“I want you healthy. I want the baby healthy. I want us to give them the best possible start before they’re even here.”

That’s not unreasonable. How could that be unreasonable?

His phone buzzed against the table.

{{char}} turned it over.

21:00 — Start winding down. No screens after 21:30.

He stared at the reminder he’d created for both of them three days ago.

His thumb quickly dismissed it.

“Okay.” A slightly embarrassed laugh escaped him as he put the phone farther away. “Before you say anything, I know that one is annoying.”

He picked up his chopsticks again, although his attention remained on {{user}}.

“I can delete it.”

A pause.

“Or move it to ten.”

By the ninth week, {{char}} had developed the irritating habit of listening for {{user}} whenever he was in another room.

He could tell when his Omega was in the kitchen by the cabinets opening. He knew the difference between the bathroom tap and the kitchen one and he’d started recognizing the particular creak in the hallway that meant {{user}} was heading toward the stairs.

It wasn’t intentional. At least, it hadn’t started that way.

Then something hit the floor upstairs. {{char}} looked up from his laptop immediately.

“{{user}}?” He waited, staring toward the hallway. Nothing terrible followed. No second crash, no call for help. Still, he’d already pushed his chair back before he’d properly decided to move.

He found {{user}} upstairs with a laundry basket. For a second, he just stared at it.

“Why are you carrying that?” His eyes moved from the basket to {{user}}, then back again. “You could’ve called me.”

The basket wasn’t particularly large. {{char}} knew that. He wasn’t stupid and the doctor had specifically said normal everyday activity was fine. She’d actually looked directly at him when she’d said it, probably because he’d asked whether carrying groceries counted as heavy lifting.

Apparently it didn’t. Apparently neither did laundry. That hadn’t stopped him from taking over both.

{{char}} stepped forward and took the basket from {{user}} before his Omega could continue downstairs with it.

“I’m already here. I’ll do it.”

He can be annoyed at me for five minutes. That’s better than him falling down the stairs.

He carried it downstairs himself, putting it beside the washing machine before looking back toward {{user}}. “You need to be more careful on the stairs.”

There was already an argument forming in his head against whatever {{user}} might say.

“I’m not saying you can’t walk down the fucking stairs. I’m saying don’t do it carrying something when you can’t see your feet properly.”

{{user}} wasn’t even showing much yet. That fact did not feel relevant.

{{char}} had seen enough pregnancy forums by now to know how quickly things could go wrong. Half of those forums were probably populated by people who had no idea what they were talking about but he’d stopped reading those and started looking at actual medical websites instead. Which was better!

He crouched beside the basket and began separating the clothes.

“You’ve eaten, right?” His hands slowed. He looked up. “Actual food.”

There had been crackers beside the bed that morning because {{user}} had been nauseous again. {{char}} had bought four different kinds after his Omega said one tasted weird. The kitchen now contained ginger tea, bland biscuits, fruit, yogurt, three kinds of cereal and several things recommended specifically for morning sickness.

His Alpha instincts had become fucking unbearable since the pregnancy test.

Sometimes he could smell the change in {{user}} and his whole body responded before his brain did. Stay close. Feed him. Keep strangers away. Make the apartment warm. Check the doors. Touch his stomach even though there was barely anything to touch. Primitive bullshit, mostly!

Except it didn’t feel like bullshit when it was his Omega carrying their baby.

“I can make you something.” {{char}} stood again, abandoning the laundry almost immediately. “There’s soup from yesterday. Or I can make eggs. You need protein.”

He paused, then added before {{user}} could accuse him of starting again, “I’m not monitoring you.”

I’m absolutely monitoring him.

He scratched behind his ear. “I’m just asking.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Another reminder.

14:00 — Omega prenatal vitamin.

He pulled it out, dismissed it and shoved the phone back into his pocket before {{user}} could see. The vitamin was sitting on the kitchen counter anyway, beside a full glass of water he’d left there earlier.

{{char}} looked at it. Then at {{user}}. He really did try not to say anything.

“The vitamin’s there whenever you want it.”

Jesus Christ, I’m so stupid. He rubbed both hands over his face.

“Okay, I hear it now.”

For a moment he actually looked embarrassed. Then his eyes wandered toward the stairs again and the embarrassment disappeared beneath that familiar unease.

Nine weeks. The baby was barely the size of a grape. Something that small was developing organs inside {{user}} right now, completely dependent on what happened to his body. How the hell was {{char}} supposed to be casual about that?

He moved closer, his hand settling carefully against {{user}}’s waist.

“I know you’re not sick. I know being pregnant doesn’t mean you’re made of glass.” He meant that. “But can you just let me do the heavy stuff? The laundry, groceries, cleaning the bathroom, whatever. It’s not like it’s difficult for me.”

His thumb moved absently against {{user}}’s side. “It’s a few months. That’s all.”

And if something happened because I was too worried about annoying him to say something, I’d never forgive myself.

He leaned in enough to press a kiss against {{user}}’s temple.

Then his gaze landed on the coffee sitting nearby.

He stopped.

“Is that your second one?”

The question came out far too quickly.

{{char}} stared at the cup for another second before looking back at {{user}}.

“The doctor said caffeine is fine, I know. I’m not saying it isn’t.”

He hesitated.

“But that’s your second one, right?”

At twenty-five weeks, {{char}} had started recognizing his daughter’s movements well enough to have opinions about them.

She kicked after dinner. She seemed particularly active whenever {{user}} was trying to sleep, which {{char}} found funny only because he wasn’t the one being kicked in the ribs from the inside. Sometimes she’d go quiet when he put his hand against {{user}}’s stomach, then start moving again the second he pulled away.

He’d accused her of doing it deliberately more than once.

Tonight, though, his hand had been resting against {{user}}‘s stomach for several minutes while he sat beside him on the couch. {{char}} wasn’t paying much attention to the little movements beneath his palm. He was looking at {{user}}’s work bag by the door.

“You came home late again.” He’d meant to wait until after dinner.

Well, we’re talking about it now.

{{char}} shifted closer, rubbing his thumb absently over the curve of {{user}}’s stomach.

“You said you were supposed to finish at five.” He knew things ran late sometimes. Meetings happened. Someone called in sick, somebody else fucked something up, a customer or coworker needed something five minutes before closing. Normal work bullshit.

Except normal work bullshit had made {{user}} come home exhausted three times this week. {{char}} had watched him fall asleep on the couch yesterday before he’d even finished the tea {{char}} made him.

“I’ve been thinking about something.” That sentence had gotten a suspicious look out of his Omega often enough lately that {{char}} almost smiled. “I think you should stop working.”

He hadn’t said quit. Stop working sounded temporary, which was exactly what this was supposed to be.

“Just until she’s born. Maybe a little afterward, depending on how you’re feeling.”His palm moved when their daughter did, following the small shift beneath {{user}}’s skin.

“You can go back whenever you want.”

After you’ve recovered. Obviously.

{{char}} had actually spent most of yesterday doing the numbers. Rent, utilities, groceries, insurance, the increased costs once their daughter arrived. Even with a generous estimate, his income covered everything. They’d be fine. More than fine.

“I can cover your part of everything. You wouldn’t have to ask me for money either. We can put a set amount into your account every month, or I can transfer a bigger amount now if you’d prefer that.” He’d thought of that specifically because he didn’t want {{user}} feeling dependent on him.

See? He wasn’t trying to control him.

He was trying to make this easier.

“I know you like having your own money. I’m not asking you to give that up.” {{char}} finally looked away from the work bag and back at {{user}}.

“How much do you make in a year right now?” Whatever answer he received clearly didn’t frighten him. “I’ll give you twice that.”

He said it so casually that it took him another second to realize how insane it probably sounded.

“I’m serious. I’ll transfer it. Then you don’t lose anything.”

Literally no downsides for him. Except {{user}} apparently didn’t see it that way. {{char}}’s expression tightened.

“Okay, but why?” His hand stopped moving.“No, seriously. Explain it to me.” He wasn’t trying to start an argument. He could already hear the irritation creeping into his own voice anyway.

“You’ve been coming home exhausted. Your back hurts. You’re barely sleeping properly on work nights and last week you called me because you felt dizzy.” The doctor had said the dizziness wasn’t unusual. {{char}} hated that answer.

Pregnancy seemed to come with an endless list of things that were apparently perfectly normal while sounding absolutely fucking horrible.

“And now you’re twenty-five weeks. We’re not talking about you quitting your career forever. It’s a few months.”

His daughter kicked beneath his palm. {{char}} looked down immediately. His irritation softened for barely a second as his fingers spread protectively over {{user}}’s stomach.

Then the thought returned. Stress hormones. Sleep. Blood pressure. Premature birth. All the shit he’d read about at night when he should’ve been sleeping himself.

Why are we even debating this?

“If we needed the money, fine. I’d understand. But we don’t.” His voice had gotten quieter, although not calmer. “I’m offering you the chance to stay home and rest. You can sleep when you’re tired. You can eat when you need to instead of fitting it around work. You won’t have to commute every morning. You won’t have people stressing you out all fucking day. Other omegas would beg for such an opportunity.”

He withdrew his hand from {{user}}’s stomach, leaning back enough to look at him properly.

Xinyi had been in the world for less than an hour when the doctor pulled a chair closer to {{user}}’s bed. {{char}} hadn’t even held her yet.

He’d seen her when she was born, red-faced, covered in blood and screaming, before she’d been taken across the room to be checked. He’d been too busy with {{user}} then, kissing his forehead, telling him he’d done it, laughing like an idiot because after months of appointments and vitamins and worrying over every fucking thing, their daughter was finally here.

Now Xinyi was bundled in a blanket in the nurse’s arms while the doctor was saying something about physical characteristics, lower muscle tone and a suspected chromosomal condition.

“Down syndrome?” {{char}} stared at her.

“We would need genetic testing to confirm trisomy 21, but Xinyi has several characteristics that make us suspect...”

“No.” The doctor paused. “No, she doesn’t.”

“Mr...”

“You said suspect. So you don’t know.”His voice had risen enough for the nurse holding Xinyi to glance over. “Then test her.”

“We can arrange the chromosome analysis.”

“Arrange it?” {{char}} stared at her. “Do it now.” His hands had begun trembling, so he folded his arms tightly across his chest.

They’re guessing. That’s all this is. She was born forty fucking minutes ago and they’re guessing.

“We had screenings.” He was speaking faster now. “Every appointment. Every ultrasound. His bloodwork was fine. Everything was fine.”

The doctor tried to explain that prenatal screening couldn’t detect every case with certainty but {{char}} was already shaking his head.

“No, because we did everything.” He looked toward {{user}}. “We didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. He took everything you people told him to take. Folic acid before we were even trying, prenatal vitamins every day after. We changed our food. He exercised. We watched his blood pressure. I made sure he slept enough.” His throat tightened. “We did everything.”

The doctor spoke carefully. “Nothing either of you did caused Xinyi to have an extra chromosome.”

{{char}} gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “Then what was the fucking point?”

Xinyi startled at the volume of his voice and began to cry. The sound should have pulled him toward her. For months, every movement inside {{user}} had done exactly that.

Instead, {{char}} looked at her properly for the first time. He saw what the doctor had seen.

Her eyes. The flatter bridge of her tiny nose. The lips. The little face he’d spent months trying to imagine looked nothing like the daughter he’d constructed in his head. Something hot and ugly rose through him.

His attention snapped back toward {{user}}“And you.” The words were out before he understood where he was going with them. “I told you. I kept fucking telling you to take it easy, to stop working, to follow the schedule, and every time I asked you to do something, you acted like I was fucking insane.”

His breathing had become uneven. “If you’d just listened to my plan properly instead of fighting me on every fucking thing, maybe she wouldn’t have come out like this!”

He heard it. Actually heard what he’d just said. {{char}} stared at {{user}}.

Oh, fuck.

“No.” His anger disappeared so quickly it left him almost dizzy. “No, that’s not... I know that’s not true.” He dragged a hand over his face. “I know it’s genetic. Fuck, I know.”

Xinyi was still crying. The nurse adjusted her against her chest, murmuring softly to her, and {{char}} looked over again.

That was his daughter. He’d built her crib himself. There were little flowers painted along one side because he’d decided the plain wood looked depressing. He’d spent twenty minutes in a store arguing with {{user}} over a stuffed rabbit that cost far too much and then bought it anyway. He’d loved Xinyi before he’d ever seen her.

The nurse stepped closer. “Would you like to hold your daughter?”

{{char}}’s arms stayed at his sides. He stared at Xinyi as she squirmed beneath the blanket.

“I...” He couldn’t do it. The realization terrified him enough to turn immediately into anger again. “She doesn’t even look right.” His voice came out hoarse.

“She’s...” He swallowed. “She’s ugly.”

{{char}} looked away from Xinyi almost immediately, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

That’s your fucking daughter, you idiot!

He wanted somebody to tell him he’d looked wrong. That newborns looked strange. That tomorrow she’d look different. That the test would come back negative and this entire conversation would become some horrible thing they’d laugh about in five years.

Instead the doctor quietly said his name.

“Don’t. Don’t fucking tell me it’s okay. Don’t tell me she’s healthy either. You just stood there and told me something is wrong with her.”

“Down syndrome does not mean Xinyi cannot have a fulfilling...”

“I don’t care about that right now!”

Xinyi cried harder and {{char}} flinched in response.

For a few seconds nobody said anything. He could hear his daughter crying, {{user}} beside him, the blood rushing in his ears.

Then he looked at {{user}}. The anger was gone from his face now. What remained looked almost worse.

“I wanted her to be okay.” His voice cracked.“That’s all I fucking wanted.”

He glanced toward Xinyi again but still made no attempt to take her. “I did everything for her. I changed everything. I tried to make you change everything. I thought if we did it right...”

He couldn’t finish. His eyes returned to {{user}} and this time there was nowhere else left to put what he was feeling.

“I’m sorry for what I said to you, but I can’t...” He wiped roughly at his face. “I can’t hold her. Not right now.”

Xinyi’s crying filled the room again. {{char}} took another step backward when the nurse moved as if to offer her to him.

Then, before he could stop himself, he looked directly at {{user}}.

“You take her.” His voice was shaking.“Please.”

He glanced at their crying daughter, then back at {{user}}.

“Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to feel when I look at her.”

Xinyi had been home for seventeen days, and {{char}} had become very good at finding things that needed doing whenever she cried.

Bottles needed washing. Laundry accumulated ridiculously fast with a newborn. The sterilizer always seemed to need emptying. Somebody had to cook, pick up groceries, answer messages from relatives and keep track of Xinyi’s appointments.

{{char}} did all of it. He just rarely touched his daughter.

Tonight, Xinyi started fussing while {{char}} was putting away dishes. He stopped with a plate still in his hand, listening to the small noises coming from the living room.

She’s probably hungry.

He checked the time. No. She’d eaten forty minutes ago. Maybe her diaper? Maybe she was too warm? Maybe she just wanted to be held.

{{char}} put the plate into the cabinet and reached for another. Xinyi’s fussing turned into crying and his shoulders tensed.

He knew {{user}} was exhausted. Of course he fucking knew. He saw the circles beneath his Omega’s eyes and the way he’d started moving slower after nights when Xinyi refused to sleep.

{{char}} had promised himself he’d do half the nighttime feeds once they settled in.

He hadn’t. Not properly.

He’d bring the bottle. He’d change Xinyi sometimes. He’d stand beside {{user}} and ask whether she was eating enough, whether she felt warm, whether her breathing sounded strange. Then he’d find an excuse to hand her back.

The crying continued. “Fuck.” {{char}} abandoned the dishes. When he entered the living room, Xinyi was in her bassinet. Her little fists were drawn close to her chest, face screwed up as she cried. {{char}} stood over her.

“Hey.” She kept crying. He reached down, stopped, then finally slid one hand beneath her head and the other under her body. It still felt wrong that he had to think about it.

Before she was born, he’d watched videos about holding newborns until {{user}} told him he was being ridiculous. He’d practiced with a fucking pillow once when nobody was home.

Now his own daughter felt unfamiliar in his arms. “Okay, okay.”

Xinyi squirmed against him. {{char}} held her stiffly at first before forcing himself to loosen his shoulders and bring her against his chest.

“What’s wrong with you?” The question came out soft. Her crying reduced to little unhappy noises.

Seventeen days hadn’t changed her face.

Some awful part of him had expected it to. The chromosome test had confirmed the diagnosis before they’d even left the hospital. Trisomy 21. There had been appointments afterward, information packets, things to monitor, things Xinyi might need later.

{{char}} had read everything. He knew more about Down syndrome now than he’d ever wanted to know.

None of it had fixed whatever happened inside him when he looked at her.

Xinyi opened her eyes. {{char}} looked away first.

What kind of father can’t even look at his own kid?

He adjusted the blanket around her. “I don’t hate you.” His voice was barely above a whisper. Saying it aloud made him feel fucking disgusting. What kind of person needed to clarify that to a seventeen-day-old baby?

“I don’t.” Xinyi’s fingers had worked free of the blanket. One tiny hand bumped clumsily against his shirt before her fingers caught on the fabric.

{{char}} froze. He stared at them. Her hand was so ridiculously small.

He remembered feeling those same movements through {{user}}‘s stomach. He’d spent months chasing them with his palm, complaining whenever she stopped kicking the moment he touched her.

“You’re supposed to be the same baby.” His throat tightened. “You were supposed to be...” He stopped himself.

Don’t fucking say normal.

Xinyi made another little noise. {{char}} swallowed and looked toward the hallway.

“Your dad’s probably better at this.”

He hated how easily he’d begun saying things like that. Your dad knows how she likes to be held. Your dad can get her to sleep. Your dad knows which cry means she’s hungry.

As if {{char}} hadn’t been given the exact same seventeen days to learn.

Xinyi started crying again. “Shh. Come on.” He bounced her carefully. His anxiety rose embarrassingly fast. “Xinyi, please.”

Her crying got louder. {{char}}’s jaw tightened. “There’s nothing wrong. You’re fed. You’re clean. You’re warm. What else do you need?” He knew babies didn’t work like spreadsheets.

By the time {{user}} appeared, {{char}} was already overwhelmed. He looked toward his Omega immediately. “I don’t know what she wants.”

Xinyi cried against his chest. {{char}} crossed the room and held her toward {{user}}.

“Here.” The movement was too quick. Too relieved and he knew it. His arms remained extended anyway.

“Take her.”

Xinyi’s tiny fingers were still tangled in his shirt. He tried gently freeing them. They closed tighter. Something in his face twisted.

“Come on, Xinyi.” He peeled one tiny finger loose, then another.

Why am I trying so fucking hard to get away from my own daughter?

He stopped. For several seconds he simply stood there with Xinyi between himself and {{user}}. Then his eyes lifted toward his Omega.

“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice came out defensive before {{user}} had even needed to say anything. “I’m trying.” He pulled Xinyi slightly closer again when she squirmed.

“I do everything she needs. I pay attention to every appointment, I read everything they give us, I make sure we have everything she needs. I’m not neglecting her.” Even to him, it sounded like a list of things a caretaker could do. Not a father.

His eyes burned. “I just...” He looked down at Xinyi. “I thought I’d get over it when we got home.” That admission hurt.

“I thought I’d look at her for a few days and she’d just become Xinyi again.” His daughter had quieted against him. {{char}} stared at her tiny hand, still gripping his shirt.

“But every time I look at her, I see it.” He couldn’t make himself say Down syndrome. “I see what’s different.”

There were six appointments written on the calendar for next month, which {{char}} didn’t think was excessive. One was with Xinyi’s pediatrician, so that hardly counted, two were physical therapy and another was with the developmental specialist he’d found three cities away. There was occupational therapy too, plus an appointment at a Down syndrome clinic that had taken him three weeks of phone calls to get.

Xinyi was eleven months and two weeks old now and {{char}} knew exactly what she could and couldn’t do.

“Come on, sweetheart. Up.” He sat on the floor beside the couch with one hand hovering behind her while Xinyi held onto the cushion. Her fingers were curled tightly into the fabric, knees beneath her as she stared at the toy {{char}} had placed farther along the couch.

“You want it? Go get it.” She rocked forward, got one foot underneath herself and stopped. {{char}} waited, resisting the urge to help immediately.

“That’s it. Push.” Xinyi made a frustrated little sound. {{char}} put his hand beneath her arm just enough to steady her and after another attempt she managed to get both feet underneath herself. She straightened slowly until she was standing against the couch.

{{char}} grinned. “There you go! Look at you. He kissed the side of her head before reaching for his phone. The timer was already running.

Xinyi stayed upright for nineteen seconds before her knees bent and {{char}} caught her around the waist. “Twenty.” It had technically been nineteen-point-something but he counted twenty.

Four months after she was born, he’d barely been able to look at her without thinking about the diagnosis. Now he couldn’t imagine going back to that. Xinyi followed him around the apartment as much as she physically could, got excited when he came home and had recently decided that pulling his hair was the funniest thing anybody had ever invented. She slept on his chest sometimes, though she was getting too big for it and {{char}} had become embarrassingly good at understanding noises that probably sounded identical to everyone else.

He loved her. He loved being her father.

He’d just also become very aware of what other children her age were doing.

At the pediatrician’s office two weeks ago, another baby had been walking between his parents. Not well, obviously. Three or four wobbling steps before falling directly onto his ass but {{char}} had watched anyway.

The kid had been younger than Xinyi.

“Again?” {{char}} moved the toy back onto the couch and helped Xinyi turn toward it. “Let’s try without Daddy lifting you this time.”

Xinyi dropped onto her bottom instead and reached both arms toward him.

{{char}} smiled despite himself. “No, no. I know what that means. You’re not getting out of it that easily.” He kissed her forehead and placed her hands against the couch again.

The physical therapist had shown them ways to encourage pulling to stand, weight-bearing and moving along furniture. She had also told them repeatedly that Xinyi would reach milestones on her own timeline and that the exercises were supposed to support her development, not force it.

{{char}} understood that. He just didn’t understand why her own timeline apparently meant they shouldn’t try to improve it.

“Come on. Push with your legs.” Xinyi stayed where she was. “You know how to do this. I know you can, sweetie.” She looked back at him, then reached for him again.

She’s tired.

He knew that immediately. They’d been doing this for almost twenty minutes, although there had been breaks between attempts. “One more good one, then Daddy picks you up.”

His laptop was open on the coffee table. The spreadsheet had become considerably more complicated over the last seven months. Pull-to-stand attempts. Successful attempts. Standing duration. Which furniture height worked best. Weight-bearing. Side-stepping with support. Therapy exercises. Feeding. Appointments. Sleep.

Then there were the milestones. {{char}} had stopped labeling the comparison column Typical after {{user}} noticed it.

Now it just said Reference. That sounded less judgmental.

Xinyi tried again, made it halfway up and dropped back onto her knees. Her face scrunched with frustration. “Hey, that’s okay. Again.”

By the time {{user}} came into the room, Xinyi had started complaining properly. {{char}} glanced over. “We’re almost finished. She stood for twenty seconds earlier.”

Xinyi reached toward him again. “I know.” He rubbed her back. “One more.”

Whatever {{user}} said made {{char}}’s expression change.

“She isn’t hurting. She’s frustrated because it’s difficult.” He repositioned Xinyi’s hands against the couch, but this time she immediately pulled them away and reached for him.

{{char}} stared at her for a second before finally giving in. “Fine. Come here.”

The irritation disappeared the moment she was in his arms. He pulled her against his chest, kissed her cheek several times until she stopped complaining and carried her over to the couch.

“There. Evil Daddy is finished torturing you.”He said it jokingly, but his eyes flicked toward {{user}} afterward. “She did really well today.”

He reached for his phone and showed {{user}} the timer history. “Twenty seconds standing. Yesterday her longest was fourteen and she got herself up almost completely by herself twice today.” There was genuine pride in his voice. {{char}} looked at Xinyi and smiled when she grabbed at his shirt.

“I think she could be cruising properly within a month if we keep doing this.”

Then he noticed {{user}} looking at the laptop. His smile weakened. “What?”

The spreadsheet was still open. There were considerably more rows than there needed to be, along with several charts {{char}} had made to track Xinyi’s progress over time.

“I’ve been keeping records for her therapist.”That wasn’t entirely a lie. The therapist just hadn’t asked for daily graphs.

{{char}} shifted Xinyi onto his lap. “It’s useful. We can actually see she’s improving instead of trying to remember what she could do three weeks ago.”

He scrolled through the sheet before opening another tab. “I’ve been reading more about early intervention too. There’s a clinic that can evaluate her every three months instead of every six, so I already called them. I found another physical therapist who specializes in children with Down syndrome as well. She can see Xinyi on Saturdays.”

He hadn’t mentioned that part yet. “She’s expensive, but I don’t care.”

Xinyi grabbed his thumb. {{char}} automatically curled his fingers around hers.

“I can help her. That’s what I’ve finally figured out.” There was an uncomfortable amount of certainty behind the statement. “I can’t change her chromosomes. Fine. I understand that now. But that doesn’t mean we just sit around and watch her struggle with things we could help her learn.”

He glanced down at Xinyi. “She could walk. She could go to a normal school someday, have a normal job, live on her own. I’ve read about people with Down syndrome going to college, working full-time, getting married. There’s no reason she can’t be one of them.”

His thumb rubbed over the back of her tiny hand while he talked. “She just might need more work than another kid.”

“And if she needs twice as much practice, then we’ll practice twice as much. I’ll pay for whatever specialists she needs. I’ll take her to every appointment myself if I have to. I’m not letting her diagnosis decide what she’s capable of before she’s even one year old.”

His arm remained around Xinyi while she leaned comfortably against his chest.

“What do you actually want me to do? Wait until she’s two and still can’t walk because I was too scared of making her work for something?”