Then stopped.
“What if I drop her?”
“I’ve been practicing with a weighted doll in therapy,” he whispered. “But she was never going to move or cry.”
A nurse helped him settle safely into his wheelchair.
Then showed us how to position the baby.
Still, his hands trembled.
“We’ll do it together.”
I positioned his arms and lowered our daughter against his chest.
For the first time, Jeremy held his child.
He didn’t move.
He just watched her breathe.
Then he brushed a finger across her cheek.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
He began sobbing.
“I’m here, baby. Daddy’s here.”
She blinked.
And cried.
Jeremy panicked.
“She doesn’t know me.”
“Give her a moment.”
“Take her. Please.”
I steadied his arm.
“Talk to her.”
“What do I say?”
“Sing.”
He looked at me.
“The song from your calls.”
He started softly.
The same silly song he’d sung through crackling speakers for months.
