He knew that.
One evening, while Vanessa was upstairs, I watched him warming a bottle.
“You’re checking the temperature too much.”
He looked at me.
“You checked Noah’s bottles six times.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“You literally used a thermometer once.”
“I was a first-time mother.”
“So am I.”
“Father.”
“You know what I mean.”
I smiled despite myself.
Then became serious.
“You scared me.”
He looked down.
“I know.”
“I thought I had given you this incredible thing.”
“I carried your daughter.”
“And for one minute you made me feel like I had delivered something defective.”
His eyes filled.
“I will regret that for the rest of my life.”
“Good.”
He looked surprised.
I continued:
“Not because I want you miserable.”
“Because some regret should stay.”
“It reminds you where the line is.”
He nodded.
“I understand.”
Six months later, the baby had undergone her first major procedure.
The waiting room at Willowcrest Medical Center felt nothing like the delivery room.
This time Ethan did not run.
He sat beside Vanessa.
