“She’s really here.”
One of the nurses laughed softly.
“She definitely has opinions.”
They placed our daughter against my chest for a moment before taking her a few feet away to check her.
Even though I knew the exam was routine, every instinct in me wanted her back.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s doing beautifully,” the pediatric nurse reassured me.
Caleb hovered awkwardly between my bed and the warming station.
“Go see her,” I told him.
“You sure?”
“Caleb, go.”
He walked over.
I couldn’t see much because the doctor was still finishing with me, but I could see Caleb’s face.
He was crying openly.
Then he leaned closer to the baby.
“Oh, wow.”
“What?”
He looked back at me.
“She has a little mark.”
“What kind of mark?”
“Near her collarbone. Dark and oval. It looks like somebody pressed a thumb into wet paint.”
The nurse chuckled.
