“Birthmark. Completely harmless.”
“Left side?” I asked.
Caleb nodded.
“Left side.”
Then he smiled.
“She already has more distinguishing features than I do.”
“That’s not exactly difficult.”
He pretended to look offended.
For the first time all day, everything felt almost normal.
Our daughter was alive.
She was healthy.
Caleb was making terrible jokes.
After a decade of loss, I finally let myself believe we had made it through.
Our daughter was taken to the nearby newborn assessment area for the rest of her routine checks. Caleb came back to my bedside.
“What do you think her hair will look like?” I asked.
“Hopefully nothing like mine. I was practically bald by thirty.”
“You still have hair.”
“Barely.”
I closed my eyes.
I thought I had rested for ten seconds.
It was closer to fifteen minutes.
When I opened them again, a nurse I hadn’t seen before entered carrying a bundled newborn.
