At 9:42, Megan stepped out and looked across the street.
Then she lifted one hand.
I crossed carefully, as though any sudden movement might undo the invitation.
Inside, the clinic smelled of hand sanitizer and baby lotion. A nurse at the desk looked from Megan to me and back again with professional caution.
“This is Rowan,” Megan said. “Their father.”
Their father.
Two words. A gift I had not earned.
The pediatrician, Dr. Kline, was a woman in her fifties with silver-threaded hair and kind, direct eyes. She did not seem impressed by my name, which immediately made me trust her.
“Noah and Ellis are gaining well,” she said after allowing me to stand awkwardly by the exam table while Megan handled everything with practiced competence. “Their lungs sound good. I’d like to see a little more weight on Ellis, but I’m not alarmed.”
I watched Megan undress Noah with gentle efficiency.
