“There are a dozen towels in this house, Greg.”
“I know.”
“So why this one? And why has it been missing for days, with you telling me it got donated by accident?”
He lowered himself into the old rocking chair without answering right away. Susan stirred against me, and without thinking, he held his hands out for her. I passed her over. He tucked the blanket around her with a practiced, unhurried tenderness, tested the bottle’s temperature against the inside of his wrist, and settled her into the crook of his elbow as if he’d done it a thousand times.
Every motion was so familiar it made my throat tighten. Not because I had ever once seen my husband feed a kitten before that night. Because I had spent decades watching those exact hands hold our son. Then, three years later, our daughter. Support the head. Angle the bottle just so. Rub small circles on the back. Wait.
