Our daughter cried once more.
Then turned her face toward him.
Her breathing settled.
Jeremy stopped.
I touched his shoulder.
“Keep singing.”
He did.
“She knows me,” he whispered.
“She knows your voice.”
Then her sister woke and began crying.
Jeremy laughed through tears.
“That’s my other girl?”
“That’s your other girl.”
We stayed until both needed feeding.
He watched me change them.
Asked which one hated baths.
Which one smiled first.
He wanted every detail he’d missed.
Before we left, he asked, “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
That night, I lay awake beside two sleeping babies.
I kept thinking about his father.
About a little boy knocking on a closed door.
And an unfinished airplane.
I called Jeremy’s mother the next morning.
“Can I ask you something about his dad?”
She went quiet.
I told her what Jeremy had said.
Then I mentioned the airplane.
