MEETING MY SON
A nurse came in several minutes later.
“Mr. Redmond? You can see the baby now.”
I turned toward Elise.
“Does he have a name?”
She shook her head.
“Not yet. I wanted to hold him before deciding.”
The neonatal intensive care unit was quieter than I had imagined.
Soft lights glowed overhead, monitors beeped quietly, and nurses moved carefully between the incubators.
Then I saw him.
My son.
He was unbelievably tiny.
A little knitted cap covered his head, while a thin tube helped him breathe.
I had stood atop unfinished skyscrapers during thunderstorms without fear.
Yet looking at that tiny child frightened me.
A nurse demonstrated how to slide one finger through the incubator opening.
“Very gently,” she said.
I reached inside.
His fingers curled around mine.
That was all it took.
I turned away as my eyes immediately filled with tears.
“Hey, little man.”
My voice trembled.
“I’m sorry your dad is late.”
His tiny fingers stayed wrapped around mine.
And something inside me cracked open.
Not painfully.
It felt more like a door that should have been opened long ago.
THE NAME WE CHOSE
Later that evening, Elise was wheeled into the NICU.
She found me sitting beside the incubator without my jacket or tie.
“You’re still here.”
I looked over at her.
“Where else would I be?”
She said nothing.
I understood why.
Six months earlier, I probably would have been somewhere else.
I told her I’d been thinking about the baby’s name.
Her grandfather had been Elias Rowan.
He had raised Elise after her parents died when she was young.
Throughout our marriage, she had talked about him constantly.
He had been a carpenter in Oklahoma who believed promises mattered more than money.
“What about Eli?” I asked.
Elise looked toward the incubator.
For the first time that day, she smiled.
“Eli Rowan Redmond.”
I nodded.
