Then Samuel.
All three at once.
My mother looked back from the passenger seat. “They have opinions.”
For the first time in days, I laughed.
It came out broken, but real.
Inside, the nursery had already been prepared.
Three walnut cribs. Three embroidered blankets. A rocking chair by the window. Fresh flowers on the dresser. A silver frame with no photo yet.
I stood in the doorway, stunned.
My mother adjusted one tiny blanket with unnecessary precision. “Your father ordered six different crib models before breakfast. This was the least ridiculous.”
My father, holding Samuel like fragile glass, said, “The German one had better engineering.”
“It looked like a laboratory incubator,” my mother replied.
“It had excellent safety ratings.”
“It had no soul, Jonathan.”
Samuel yawned.
My father looked down at him. “He agrees with me.”
I laughed again, and this time I cried too.
The next two days passed in fragments.
