He was astonishing because he was here, breathing, blinking sleepily against his mother’s shoulder while I stood before him as both stranger and father.
Noah slept through everything, one fist curled beneath his chin.
“They’re beautiful,” I whispered.
Megan’s expression softened despite herself. “They’re loud.”
I laughed once, but it broke apart in my chest.
“I missed everything.”
“Yes.”
Their first breaths. First cries. First nights. The fear. The hospital. The tiny fingers. The paperwork. The naming. The learning of them.
I had missed it because I had believed a lie that flattered my wounded pride.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Megan looked tired suddenly. So tired the anger could not hold her upright by itself.
“I know you are,” she said. “That’s the worst part.”
“What is?”
“That I still know when you mean something.”
The space between us filled with all the years before the ruin. The kitchen mornings. The rainy-day drives. The arguments that ended with apologies and cold pizza. The way she used to fall asleep reading with her thumb marking the page. The way I used to believe there were some things no one could take from us.
