Rebirth: Love me Again
Chapter 361: Nesting, and Nerves

Chapter 361: Nesting, and Nerves

[EVE]

The weeks that followed were a strange mix of cozy chaos and overwhelming quiet.

As I neared the final stretch of pregnancy, everything seemed to slow down, and at the same time, speed up.

My belly had grown impossibly round. Bean no longer fluttered inside me—they rolled, they kicked, they announced their presence like a future Olympic gymnast.

And my family? They had reached peak protectiveness.

Dean no longer allowed me to open doors.

"I got it!" he’d shout, even if I was already halfway through.

Damien began tracking my Braxton Hicks contractions like a meteorologist watching storm patterns.

Dante had built a homemade fetal monitor from spare tech parts. He brought it out during meals and pointed it at my stomach like a scanner.

"Still breathing," he’d declare.

"I should hope so," I’d reply with a smile.

But in all the noise and laughter and back-and-forth bickering over stroller brands, there were moments—quiet moments—where I just sat with my thoughts.

Like during my nightly ritual: chamomile tea, my favorite blanket, and soft music playing in the background as I stared out the living room window at the blinking city lights.

That was when it hit me the hardest.

I was really about to become a mom.

Me.

The girl who used to think motherhood was something for "other people"—the strong ones, the brave ones, the ones who didn’t cry over lettuce sandwiches or get overwhelmed by diaper options.

And yet here I was. About to bring life into the world. About to meet the tiny human who had already taken up so much space in my heart.

One night, I spoke to Bean out loud.

"I hope you get your dad’s strength," I whispered, hand on my belly. "And maybe my sarcasm. Or at least your Uncle Dean’s sense of humor. You’re going to be surrounded by weirdos, Bean. But the best kind. The kind who will fight for you. Love you. Cry over your report cards. And never, ever let you feel alone."

The baby kicked in response.

"See? You’re already part of the madness," I whispered with a smile.

One weekend, the guys threw what they called a "Pre-Baby Celebration." (Not a baby shower—they insisted on rebranding it for "maximum mom energy.")

There were no pastel decorations or pink cupcakes. No, this was a full-on barbecue, with "Baby-lympics" games that included "Fastest Diaper Change Blindfolded" and "Rock the Cradle: Heavy Metal Edition."

Dean made everyone wear shirts with "Team Bean" written on them in glitter letters. Even Dante participated, though he covered his with a lab coat.

"You’re all ridiculous," I told them, laughing.

"You’re welcome," Damien replied as he handed me a non-alcoholic sparkling juice in a champagne flute.

It was silly and chaotic and made absolutely no sense.

But it was perfect.

Then came the nesting phase.

I became obsessed with cleaning and organizing. Like manic obsessed.

I reorganized the kitchen cabinets by color. I folded every single baby item by size, material, and season. I cleaned the floors three times in a day, convinced a speck of dust would poison Bean.

Damien walked in on me vacuuming the ceiling.

"Okay, sit down before you go into labor from rage," he said, gently confiscating the vacuum.

"I’m fine! The ceiling had cobwebs!"

"It’s a ceiling. Bean isn’t going to climb it."

"I said I’m fine!"

Dean popped his head in. "She’s nesting. It’s totally normal."

"According to what?" Damien asked.

Dean held up a book titled What to Expect When You’re Expecting (But with Extra Sass).

Dante, meanwhile, had prepped five labor routes to the hospital. One for heavy traffic. One for detours. One in case of alien invasion, I think.

He handed out walkie-talkies.

"We have cellphones," I said, confused.

"Walkie-talkies don’t drop signals," he replied grimly. "You’re welcome."

By week 38, every time I so much as breathed funny, the house went into full alert mode.

One night, I sneezed, and Damien dropped his phone and screamed, "IS IT TIME?!"

"No," I sniffled. "It’s just dust. From your neglected bookshelf, by the way."

Mom just laughed, the soft, understanding kind of laugh only mothers possess. She gave me a long hug and whispered, "You’re doing great, sweetheart."

And suddenly, I started crying again.

Not the hormonal sobs this time, but quiet, trembling tears.

"I’m scared, Mom," I admitted.

"I know," she said. "I was too. The first time, I thought I’d break the baby just by holding them. But you won’t. You’ll figure it out. And when you don’t, we’ll be here."

"Even when I mess up?"

"Especially when you mess up."

Her words clung to me like a warm blanket. I didn’t know if I could be a perfect mom—but maybe I didn’t have to be. Maybe I just needed to show up, love fiercely, and do my best.

Days went by and my family forgot that they have jobs, or put their jobs inside the house.

Father kept his meetings close—just a few blocks from where I was resting—so he could check on me during breaks.

Mother, meanwhile, had taken it upon herself to renovate two rooms for the baby. She even canceled all her shows and appearances for the foreseeable future.

"My priority is you and my grandchild," she had said with a proud, firm smile that almost made me cry.

Damien, never one to do anything halfheartedly, took "working from home" to an entirely new level—turning down business trips and shifting all his meetings online just to stay near.

Dean canceled an entire tour, something unheard of from a man who once performed on stage with a broken toe. Now, he was devoting his energy to designing the baby’s playlist and arguing with our mom about crib aesthetics.

And Dante—dear, blunt Dante—submitted his year-long leave from the hospital, saying that overseeing his sister’s prenatal care was a more meaningful endeavor than any surgery.

He officially appointed himself my "personal OB-GYN-slash-bodyguard."

Their entire world had shifted.

I could feel it every day, in every gesture, in the quiet sacrifices they made without question. I was their priority now—and so was the little life growing inside me.

Of course, I knew what they were giving up—and I was deeply touched by everything they did. I made sure they knew how much I appreciated them, even if I was a hormonal, crying mess most of the time.