Her hands had killed. Her hands had torn people apart, had wrecked worlds and lives and friendships. Her hands were tainted. Her hands were brutish, calloused, rough as sandpaper and tough as nails.

And yet the nurse placed the softest thing in the world in them. Haruka almost told her not to, that she would surely break it, that it should be left in Michiru’s arms, she was softer, she knew more, Haruka had read so much, taken classes, but Michiru always knew more–

But then her hand, Haruka’s rough, powerful hand, moved instinctively under the baby’s head. She cradled her close, this softest girl, and nothing else mattered. Her daughter needed softness, and so she was soft. Her daughter needed gentleness, and so she was gentle.

Her daughter needed goodness, and so even Haruka could be good. Haruka would be anything this little girl needed.

Michiru gave her an exhausted smile from the bed. “The two of you are beautiful.”

Haruka smiled back, the sight of her wife blurring through the tears. She sat next to her, still nestling the baby against her chest. “I thought I wouldn’t know how to do this.”

Michiru leaned over and kissed her elbow, the only thing in her reach. “You are perfect for this, love.”

Haruka looked from her to the baby, their baby, and for the first time in her life, believed it could be true. She could be perfect, or at least good. Who she was, who she had been and what she had done, was only dust in the wind. Nothing would keep her from doing right by her daughter. Her family.

Her hands would build, heal, fix. Her hands would check baths and bottles and make shadow puppets on the walls when the power went out. Her hands would hold her baby’s head and then her hand and hopefully always her heart.

Haruka’s hands were what she chose to do with them, and from that moment forward, she would always choose care.