I took his hand.
“Then don’t.”
He looked at the airplane.
Then at his girls.
“I won’t.”
Recovery wasn’t instant.
There were appointments.
Painful exercises.
Days when he needed help.
And conversations neither of us could avoid anymore.
But Jeremy stopped hiding.
He came home in his wheelchair.
We took the photograph we’d imagined for months.
Both daughters in his arms.
Their matching outfits, now a little tight.
His wheelchair visible.
The wooden airplane on the table beside him.
That night, one baby woke crying.
Before I could get up, Jeremy rolled beside her crib.
“I’m here, sweetheart.”
He started singing.
She quieted.
I stood in the doorway.
I remembered the airport.
Three balloons.
Two babies.
A man who never came through the doors.
