Because this was not how I had imagined meeting my daughters.
Fear.
Cold operating room.
Bright lights.
The strange tugging sensation nobody really explains properly.
Then crying.
One baby.
Then another.
The sound changed everything.
Baby A:
Lucy.
Five pounds, eleven ounces.
Baby B:
Grace.
Five pounds, four.
Both breathing.
Both angry.
Perfect.
Mom cried behind her mask.
I sobbed.
A nurse brought Lucy close.
Then Grace.
I kissed tiny foreheads.
Caleb’s place beside me remained occupied by my mother.
I was grateful for her.
Still furious at him.
Both could exist.
Recovery was worse than I expected.
The first time nurses asked me to stand, pain ripped through my abdomen.
I cried.
Mom held one arm.
Nurse held the other.
I moved six steps.
Six.
It felt like crossing a state.
Caleb sent messages constantly now.
I’m trying to get a flight.
There are no direct seats.
Can you send pictures?
Please answer.
How are the girls?
I sent one photograph.
Both girls sleeping.
Then:
They’re healthy.
He replied instantly:
My babies ❤️❤️
I stared.
My.
Interesting how quickly fatherhood became present tense once photographs existed.
His earliest flight got him home two days later.
Not Monday.
Wednesday.
By then, we had been discharged.
Mom drove us home.
Two car seats.
My hospital bag.
Medication.
