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.
The next morning, I called Jeremy’s mother.
“Can I ask you something about his dad?”
