“I know that too,” he said. “Logically. It’s harder to fully believe it in the ten seconds right after seeing his exact birthmark on my own newborn daughter, apparently.”
⸻
I asked him, gently, whether he wanted to hand her to me for a moment, worried the whole conversation might be pulling him further from the actual joy of the night instead of toward it.
⸻
“No,” he said quickly, adjusting his grip on her slightly instead, something in his expression settling into something steadier. “I don’t want to put her down. I think I actually need this exact moment, Marisol. I think I need to sit here and let this be about her, not about him.”
He looked down at our daughter again, and this time, I watched something in his face genuinely soften, the earlier shock slowly giving way to something closer to wonder.
⸻
“She’s not him,” Desmond said quietly, mostly to himself. “She’s just herself. With her own mark, that happens to look like his. That’s the whole story. It doesn’t have to mean anything else.”
⸻
