Caleb laughed.
Then he leaned closer.
“Oh, wow.”
“What?” I called.
He glanced back at me.
“What kind of mark?”
“She has this little mark.”
“What kind of mark?”
“Near her collarbone. Dark, kind of oval. Looks like somebody pressed a thumb into wet paint.”
The nurse chuckled.
“Birthmark. Completely harmless.”
Caleb looked down again.
For the first time all day, I felt almost normal.
“Left side?”
“Yes.”
He grinned.
“She already has more distinguishing features than I do.”
“That’s not difficult,” I said.
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He looked offended.
Our daughter was alive.
For the first time all day, I felt almost normal.
Our daughter was alive.
She was healthy.
Caleb was making bad jokes.
After ten years of being afraid to hope, I let myself believe we had finally made it through.
Caleb came back beside me while our daughter was taken to the nearby newborn assessment area for the rest of her routine checks.
I closed my eyes for what felt like ten seconds.
“Like yours?”
“Hopefully not. I was bald by thirty.”
I smiled.
“You still have hair.”
“Barely.”
I closed my eyes for what felt like ten seconds.
My heart jumped.
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Apparently, it was closer to fifteen minutes.
When I opened them, a nurse I hadn’t seen before was entering with a bundled baby in her arms.
“There she is,” she said.
My heart jumped.
Caleb stood immediately.
His face softened in a way I’d never seen before.
The nurse smiled.
“Want to hold your daughter?”
His face softened in a way I’d never seen before.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
She placed the baby in his arms.
The blanket loosened as Caleb adjusted her, exposing the top of one shoulder.
For one perfect second, he smiled.
I watched him look down.
For one perfect second, he smiled.
Then he stopped.
His entire body went still.
“Caleb?”
He didn’t answer.
Caleb stared at the baby.
His face had gone pale.
The nurse noticed too.
“Sir? Are you feeling faint?”
Caleb stared at the baby.
Then he whispered, “No.”
My stomach tightened.
Something in his voice made the back of my neck go cold.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“No. That’s impossible.”
Something in his voice made the back of my neck go cold.
The nurse frowned.
“What is?”
A reddish patch showed on the baby’s right shoulder.
Caleb carefully shifted the blanket farther down.
A reddish patch showed on the baby’s right shoulder.
He stared at it.
“The mark.”
I pushed myself upright despite the pain.
“Our daughter’s birthmark was on the left.”
“What about it?”
“This isn’t where it was.”
The nurse blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“Our daughter’s birthmark was on the left.”
She gave a small, uncertain smile.
The room suddenly felt too bright.
“Newborn skin can look different after delivery. Redness can appear—”
“No.”
His voice sharpened.
“This isn’t the same mark.”
The room suddenly felt too bright.
“Caleb,” I whispered. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
I’d heard the nurse confirm it.
He turned toward me.
“Dark oval. Left side. Near her collarbone. I said it looked like a thumbprint.”
I remembered.
Of course I remembered.
I’d heard the nurse confirm it.
I looked at the woman beside him.
She glanced toward the door.
“You weren’t here then.”
“No,” she admitted.
“Who was?”
She glanced toward the door.
“I can get your nurse.”
My name was printed on it.
Caleb looked down at the identification band around the baby’s ankle.
“Check this first.”
The nurse did.
My name was printed on it.
Caleb’s too.
Our hospital number.
