“Is it real?” he whispered.
“It’s real,” I said.
“A good kind of fear,” he murmured into my hair.
Mia was born in October, during a warm Indian summer. Mark was in the delivery room, his hand a steady, unshakable weight in mine. When she finally arrived, let out a lusty, indignant cry, Mark didn’t cheer. He wept. A single, silent tear for the eleven years of silence and the eighth year of my waiting.
He held her with an awkward, terrified reverence. “Hello,” he whispered to the tiny, wrinkled face. “We’ve been waiting for you for a very long time.”
A year later, we stood in the garden. The apple trees were in heavy, fragrant bloom. Mia was crawling across the grass with a look of terrifying determination, headed straight for her father’s nose.
Mark scooped her up, his laugh—a real, deep, soulful sound—filling the air.
