***
Later, when the bag was by the door and my coat was on, he went quiet.
“Is she upset?”
He stood in the nursery doorway, looking at the two white cribs he’d built with his own hands.
“Can I say something dumb?” he asked.
“Only smart things allowed today.”
“Ten years.” He swallowed. “All those needles. All those waiting rooms. The doctors said it plain, you know. It was me. My numbers.”
He went quiet.
He hung his head.
“If I’d just been different, you wouldn’t have had to go through any of it.”
I had heard him blame himself before. I hadn’t expected to hear it today.
I crossed the room and took his face in my hands.
“Listen to me. I don’t see our girls as something you failed to give me. They’re ours.”
He hung his head.
I smiled.
