He stopped beside my bed.
For a second, we just looked at each other.
Then he said:
“Where is your husband?”
I laughed.
It turned into a gasp as another contraction hit.
“Birthday party.”
My father’s expression went blank.
“What?”
“Margaret turned sixty.”
He pulled a chair closer.
“Of course she did.”
“Dad.”
“I said nothing.”
“You absolutely said something.”
“Internally.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
It hurt.
He took my hand.
Fourteen hours later, my son was born.
Leo Cole.
Seven pounds, six ounces.
Angry lungs.
Dark hair.
Tiny clenched fists.
The nurse placed him against my chest and the world narrowed to warmth, exhaustion and disbelief.
Gideon stood beside the bed crying without making a sound.
I had seen my father negotiate billion-dollar deals with people who terrified entire boardrooms.
Now he stared at a seven-pound baby like the child had personally dismantled him.
“He’s perfect,” Dad whispered.
