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The salt air of Santa Monica usually acted as a balm for Max Mayfield-Sinclair’s soul, but today, the smell of the Pacific made her stomach roll.
She sat in her office, the walls covered in finger paintings from children who had seen too much. As a child psychologist, Max was a specialist in the "unspeakable." She knew the anatomy of a scream and the architecture of a trauma-bond. She was the one who told kids they were safe now. Yet, as she stared at the half-eaten bagel on her desk, a primal, terrifying intuition took hold.
When she finally saw the two lines on the plastic stick a few days later, she didn't cry tears of joy. She sat on the edge of the tub and felt a cold, paralyzing dread.
She thought of her mother’s empty bottles. She thought of Neil’s heavy footsteps. She thought of Billy’s rage. Her DNA felt like a minefield. How can I lead someone through a childhood when mine was a war zone?
She waited until the fear had simmered down into a manageable hum. On a Tuesday night, she set the table. Lucas came home late, his shoulders tight from a day of manipulating limbs and coaching stroke victims back to life. He was a man of science and strength now, though he still wore his old baseball cap when he mowed the lawn.
"You're home early," Lucas noted, dropping a kiss on her temple. "You feel better? No more 'stomach bug'?"
"I'm fine.Let's eat, before it gets cold." Max said, her voice sounding steadier than she felt.
Midway through the meal, Max pushed a small, wrapped box across the table. Lucas opened it to find a tiny, knitted basketball jersey—yellow and green, Hawkins colors—with "SINCLAIR 01" on the back.
Lucas stared at it. His brain, usually so sharp, stalled. "Wait. Is this... for a dog? Are we getting a puppy?"
"Lucas," Max laughed, tears pricking her eyes. "I’m pregnant."
Lucas didn't just cheer; he tripped over his own chair trying to get to her. He fell to one knee to press his face against her stomach. "Hi," he whispered. "I'm your dad. I'm really good at DnD and I’m going to make sure you have the best sneakers in the world”
He was just so happy he couldn’t stay still, he stood up hug and wrapped Max in a tight hug, he lifted her off the ground, spinning her carefully before freezing. "Wait! Should I be spinning you? Is the baby dizzy? I’m a medical professional, I should know the centrifugal force limits on an embryo!"
Max laughed, the dread momentarily lifting. "It’s an embryo, Lucas, not a milkshake. It’s fine."
Returning to Hawkins for the holidays always felt bittersweet, that town took a lot from them but also gave them as much.
On Christmas morning, the Sinclair living room was chaotic. Erica was complaining about the "intellectual bankruptcy" of Christmas specials while sipping coffee. Max handed Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair a gift-wrapped box. Inside was a custom-made calendar for 1997.
Every month was filled with family birthdays, but when they flipped to June, a giant red circle surrounded the 14th. Inside the circle, Max had printed:
"GRANDPA AND GRANDMA PROBATION PERIOD ENDS. FULL-TIME DUTIES BEGIN."
Mrs. Sinclair let out a sob of pure, unadulterated joy, clutching Max to her chest. Lucas’s dad just beamed, clapping Lucas on the shoulder with a hand that said, Welcome to the club, son.
Erica, who had been leaning against the mantel with an expression of practiced boredom, set her mug down slowly on a coaster and walked over to where Lucas was being smothered in a hug by their mother. She snatched the calendar out of her father's hand and squinted at the red circle.
"June?" Erica asked, her voice flat. "You’re telling me you two had the audacity to plan a delivery for the middle of finals week? My schedule is booked through 1998, Lucas. I don't have a 'Newborn Liaison' slot available on my planner."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Well. I suppose someone has to ensure this child grows up with a shred of intellectual dignity. God knows if it takes after Lucas, it’ll spend its first three years trying to eat its own shoelaces and crying about dice rolls"
She stepped forward, and instead of a hug—which was still a rare currency for Erica Sinclair—she reached out and tapped Max’s stomach firmly with two fingers.
"Listen up, Sinclair 2.0," Erica said, addressing Max's midsection with terrifying authority. "I am your Aunt Erica. I am the CEO of this family and your primary legal counsel. Your father is a dork and your mother is a retired rebel. I am your only hope for greatness. Don't be late. I hate tardiness."
She looked up at Lucas, who was beaming at her like a proud big brother.
"Don't look at me like that, you nerd," she snapped, though her eyes were suspiciously bright. "I’m already calculating how much I can charge you for babysitting. With inflation? You can’t afford me. But I’ll consider a family discount if the kid is a girl. We need to even out the gender ratio in this house; the testosterone-to-brain-cell ratio is currently skewed way too far in the wrong direction."
"I love you too, Erica" Lucas chuckled, reaching out to ruffle her hair.
That evening, the Party gathered at Mike and El’s place. It was still so weird thinkin thatn they were adults now—Steve was managing a regional business, Dustin was a literal rocket scientist, Nancy was an editor—but put them in a room together and the maturity evaporated.
"Alright, losers," Max announced, standing by the tree. "Lucas and I got you all a collective gift. But you have to earn it."
She handed Mike a manila envelope. Inside were seven puzzle pieces. The group huddled around the coffee table, scrambling to assemble them. As the last piece clicked in, the image revealed a scanned photo of a tiny hand with five perfect fingers. Across the top, Lucas had scrawled in his best "Dungeon Master" font:
NEW PARTY MEMBER JOINING THE CAMPAIGN: SUMMER 1997. CLASS: UNKNOWN. HP: GROWING.
"No way!" Dustin shrieked, pointing at Lucas. "You? A father? You can't even keep a cactus alive, Sinclair!"
"It’s not a cactus, Henderson," Lucas retorted, glowing with pride. "It’s a legacy."
A few months later, the anatomy scan confirmed it: a girl.
Lucas turned into a man possessed. He spent his weekends building down a crib and researching the best developmental toys. "She’s going to be a genius, Max. A physical powerhouse and a genius. I’m going to teach her how to shoot a hook shot before she can walk."
But Max would watch him from the doorway, her hand over her growing belly, feeling the old shadows creep back. One night, as Lucas was talking to her stomach about the merits of man-to-man defense, she snapped.
"What if she hates me, Lucas? What if I'm too cold, or too hard, or I just... I don't know how to be soft. I didn't have 'soft' growing up."
Lucas stood up, his face softening. He walked over and folded her into his arms. "Max, look at me. You spent your whole life being a shield for people. You shielded your mom, you shielded us, and now you shield these kids at work. You think you don't know how to be a mother? You've been mothering the world since you were twelve. You aren't your past. You're the person who survived it so she wouldn't have to."
The labor was long, grueling, and involved Max cursing Lucas out in two different languages.
"Deep breaths, Max," Lucas whispered, his voice pitched in that soothing, rhythmic tone he used for his physiotherapy patients. "Remember the visualization we practiced. The ocean. The waves..."
Max’s eyes snapped open, blazing with a terrifying, drug-free intensity. "Lucas? If you say the word 'waves' one more time, I will drown you in one."
"Right. No waves. Got it. Sturdy ground. Mountains?"
"Shut up!" she gasped as another contraction seized her. "You did this! You and your... your stupidly high sperm count and your 'it would be so nice to have a June baby' logic! I am going to kill you, Lucas Charles Sinclair!"
"I know, honey. I’m a monster," Lucas said, expertly swapping his hand out for a cold compress before she could actually break his fingers.
Max slumped back for a second of reprieve, her chest heaving. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the sheer, terrifying devotion in his eyes. The anger vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by that stubborn, gritty love that had defined them since 1984.
"I don't actually hate you," she panted, her voice cracking. "I just... I really want to punch you."
"I'll give you a free hit once she's out," Lucas promised, kissing her knuckles. "But for now, I need you to push."
"Fine," Max wheezed, bracing herself for the final stretch. "But if she has your stubborn-ass attitude, I'm blaming you for the next eighteen years."
Just outside, the waiting room was packed,buzzing with a loud group of uncles and aunts pacing like expectant fathers themselves, wearing matching shirts Steve had commissioned:
"UNOFFICIAL UNCLE: DIAPER CHANGING NOT INCLUDED."
When the baby was finally placed on Max’s chest, the world went silent.
Max looked down, exhausted, sweaty, and ready to see a tiny version of herself and Lucas. A perfect mix. She had spent nine months having her ribs kicked and her bladder used as a trampoline by this tiny human.
She blinked. Then she groaned, a tired, amused sound.
"You've got to be kidding me," Max whispered.
"What?" Lucas leaned in, eyes puffy from crying.
"I did all the work," Max grumbled, a smirk tugging at her lips. "I carried her for forty weeks. I went through twenty hours of labor. And she had the audacity to come out looking exactly like you."
It was true. The baby had Lucas’s nose, his brow, and even the way his lip curled slightly on one side. She was a perfect, tiny, bronze-skinned mirror of her father.
"She’s beautiful," Lucas breathed, mesmerized.
"She’s a mini-you," Max sighed, leaning her head back against the pillow, her heart finally feeling whole. "I guess I can live with that. Having two of you around isn't the worst fate."
Max lay back against the pillows, the adrenaline finally receding to leave a warm, hazy glow in its wake. The room was quiet now, the chaos of the "Uncles" having been shooed into the hallway by a stern nurse.
Lucas sat on the edge of the bed, his finger captured in the tiny, tight grip of his daughter’s hand. He looked at Max, his eyes shining. "So... we’re sticking with it? The name?"
Max looked down at the sleeping infant and nodded softly. "There was never really another choice, was there?"
She traced the baby's velvet-soft cheek. "Part of me wanted to name her after someone 'normal.' Someone who didn't have to fight. But then I realized that being a Sinclair means being a fighter. And she’s named after the two people who taught me that the dark doesn't win."
She looked at Lucas, her voice steadying.
"Jane... because of El. Not just because she’s my best friend, but because she’s the one who refused to let go. When my heart stopped, when the world went black and everyone else thought I was gone, Jane reached into that void. She brought me back. I want our daughter to have that kind of soul—the kind that finds people in the dark and pulls them home."
Lucas squeezed her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles.
"And Holly," Max continued, her eyes misting over. "Everyone remembers the big battles. The gates, the monsters, the fire. But I remember that little girl in the middle of the carnage, just trying to find her way. Holly Wheeler was the one who didn't give up on the exit. Without her, I wouldn't have found my way out of Camazotz. I would have been stuck in that maze forever."
She leaned down, whispering the name against the baby's forehead.
"I want her to be a bridge, Lucas. Jane gave me my life back, and Holly showed me the way to live it. Holly Jane. A reminder that no matter how deep the hole is, there’s always a way out—and there’s always someone reaching in to grab you."
Lucas leaned in, resting his forehead against Max’s. "Holly Jane Sinclair" he murmured. "She’s got a lot to live up to."
"Nah," Max smirked, the familiar spark returning to her blue eyes as she glanced at the baby's very-much-Lucas-like face. "With your face and my attitude? The world should be worried about living up to her."