"She needs the routine," Drew insisted, pacing the nursery with a crying Hope. "Dr. Connor said-"

"I know what Dr. Connor said." Casey ran her fingers through her tangled hair, exhaustion evident in every movement. "But she's been crying for two hours, Drew. The sleep training isn't working."

"It's only been three days. We have to give it time."

"Tell that to our daughter!"

Hope's wails increased in volume, as if agreeing with her mother. The clock on the wall showed 3:47 AM-their fourth straight night of this battle.

"Just let me try-" Casey reached for the baby.

Drew turned away, still bouncing Hope gently. "The book says we have to be consistent. If we keep changing strategies, she'll never learn."

"The book?" Casey's voice went dangerously quiet. "You're really going to quote the book at me right now?"

"Someone has to think logically about this."

The moment the words left his mouth, Drew knew he'd made a mistake. Casey went completely still, and he saw it flash across her face-that old hurt, the one he'd promised himself he'd never cause again.

"Someone has to think logically about this," he'd said during the renovation arguments. "We can't just throw money at problems and hope they fix themselves."

"Someone has to think logically about this," he'd said the day she'd moved out. "Marriage counseling isn't going to magically solve everything."

Now here they were again, with different stakes but the same old patterns threatening to emerge.

"Casey-" he started.

"No." She held up a hand. "You don't get to do this. Not again."

"Do what?"

"Act like your way is the only right way. Like I'm just being emotional and irrational because I can't stand to hear her cry."

"That's not what I-"

"Yes, it is." She wrapped her arms around herself. "You've got it all figured out, don't you? The perfect routine, the perfect strategy, everything by the book. Just like always."

Hope's cries had subsided to whimpers, but the tension in the room only grew.

"That's not fair," Drew said quietly.

"Isn't it?" Casey's laugh held no humor. "God, I'm such an idiot. I actually thought things would be different this time."

She turned toward the door, and suddenly Drew was back in their old house, watching her walk away. The memory hit him like a physical blow-the helplessness, the pride that had kept him from stopping her, the thousand things he should have said.

Not this time.

"Wait." He shifted Hope to one arm, catching Casey's wrist with his free hand. "Please."

She didn't pull away, but she didn't turn around either.

"I'm scared too," he admitted.

That got her attention. She glanced back at him. "What?"

"I'm terrified." He swallowed hard. "Every time she cries, every time I don't know what she needs... I'm so afraid of getting it wrong. Of failing her. Of failing you."

"Drew..."

"So I cling to the books and the routines because at least then I feel like I'm doing something right. Something concrete." He looked down at Hope, finally quiet against his shoulder. "But maybe... maybe there's more than one right way."

Casey turned fully now, studying his face. "You really mean that?"

"I'm trying to." He attempted a smile. "Old habits die hard, I guess."

"Tell me about it." She stepped closer, touching Hope's downy head. "Remember what you said at the house? About how we can't go back to who we were?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe that means we can't parent like we thought we would either. Maybe we have to figure out our own way."

Drew considered this. "A compromise?"

"More like... a collaboration." Casey's free hand found his. "What if we tried the routine, but added a midnight feeding? Not every night, just... when she seems to need it?"

"That's not what the book says."

"No." She squeezed his fingers. "It's what our daughter is telling us she needs."

Hope chose that moment to snuffle against Drew's neck, one tiny hand clutching his t-shirt.

"See?" Casey smiled. "She agrees."

Drew looked at their daughter, really looked at her. Not as a problem to be solved or a schedule to be managed, but as her own tiny person with needs they were just beginning to understand.

"Okay," he said softly.

"Okay?"

"Let's try it your way." He corrected himself. "Our way."

The relief in Casey's eyes made him ache. How many times had he dismissed her instincts in favor of his plans? How many moments had they missed because he was too focused on doing things "right"?

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For making you think your way of seeing things wasn't just as valid as mine. Then and now."

Casey's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry too. For almost running away again instead of telling you how I felt."

"We're really bad at this sometimes, aren't we?"

"Sometimes." She moved closer, until they were both cradling Hope between them. "But we're getting better."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She touched his cheek. "The old Drew Thompson would never have admitted he was scared."

"The old Casey Mitchell would never have suggested a compromise."

"Thompson," she corrected automatically, then smiled. "See? Progress."

Hope stirred between them, making the tiny snuffling sounds that usually preceded crying. But before either of them could tense up, she settled again, apparently content to be sandwiched between her parents.

"Think we can do this?" Drew asked softly. "Really do it this time?"

"The parenting thing or the us thing?"

"Both."

Casey considered it, her head tilting in that way he'd always loved. "I think... I think maybe we already are. Doing it, I mean. Not perfectly, but..."

"But our way?"

"Exactly."

They stood there in the quiet nursery, their daughter peaceful between them, the first hints of dawn starting to lighten the windows. Not perfect, not completely figured out, but together. Learning. Growing. Trying.

"You know what this means, right?" Casey murmured after a while.

"What?"

"All those parenting books you bought? We can officially ignore at least half of them."

Drew laughed softly, careful not to disturb Hope. "Only half?"

"Well, we might need the other half for when she starts walking."

"Don't even joke about that."

But he was smiling as he said it, and when Casey led them all to the rocking chair for an off-schedule feeding, he didn't consult a single book or routine.

Sometimes love meant letting go of being right.

Sometimes growth meant admitting you were still growing.

Sometimes the best solutions weren't found in books at all, but in the quiet moments between midnight and dawn, when two people chose to face their fears together instead of alone.

Hope drifted back to sleep as the sun rose, her parents watching over her, both a little older, a little wiser, and a lot more willing to learn from each other than they'd been before.

Not perfect.

But perfectly them.