“Support his head,” I teased.
“I delivered babies for twenty-seven years.”
“And yet you look like you’re holding a live grenade.”
Robert laughed.
Ethan yawned.
For several quiet minutes, I watched them.
Nothing dramatic happened.
That was what made it beautiful.
An older man held his grandson.
A baby slept.
A family relationship began without ceremony.
Before Robert left, he said, “Logan asked me not to give you his number unless you requested it.”
I considered that.
“Do you have mine?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to him.”
Robert searched my face.
“Are you sure?”
“He’s Ethan’s father.”
That didn’t mean boyfriend.
It didn’t mean partner.
It didn’t mean forgiveness.
But it meant something.
Robert nodded.
“I’ll tell him.”
At home, reality arrived quickly.
Ethan woke every two hours.
Laundry multiplied mysteriously.
I discovered that making a sandwich while holding a newborn required skills normally associated with circus performers.
