A boy.
They named him Thomas Michael Hale.
Thomas for Lucas’s great-grandfather.
Michael for mine.
Daniel called me from the hospital hallway.
“I’m a grandfather.”
“You sound traumatized.”
“I’m forty-two.”
“Ancient.”
“Grace already texted me the same thing.”
I smiled.
“How’s the baby?”
“Perfect.”
“How’s Vanessa?”
“Fine.”
“And Lucas?”
Daniel became quiet.
“Terrified.”
“Good.”
“Why does everyone say that?”
“Because terrified parents usually understand the responsibility.”
Daniel laughed.
Then he said, “Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not turning the girls against me.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“You did enough damage yourself. I didn’t need to help.”
“Ouch.”
“But I also knew they deserved the chance to decide who you became next.”
Silence.
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
That mattered.
Two years after the divorce, Daniel was no longer the man I married.
But he wasn’t the man who signed those papers either.
