“What does that mean?”
“It means I spent months learning not to depend on you.”
He flinched.
“If you want certainty, we can arrange a DNA test properly.
Not because I have doubts.
Because apparently you do.”
“I didn’t say I doubted you.”
“You asked if she was yours.”
He had no answer.
My mother moved closer to me.
Ryan looked toward the baby again.
“Can I see her?”
The question was different this time.
No demand.
No assumption.
Just a question.
I studied him for several seconds.
Then I nodded once.
My mother stepped aside but stayed close.
Ryan approached the bassinet as if the floor had become unstable beneath him.
He stopped at its edge.
My daughter was asleep, her face turned slightly toward the window.
Ryan stared.
His mouth parted.
Whatever he had expected to feel, it was clearly not this.
“She’s tiny,” he said.
“She was just born.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
He looked at me, then back at her.
One of her hands escaped the blanket.
Ryan lifted his own hand instinctively, then stopped before touching her.
He looked at me for permission.
That small hesitation affected me more than his dramatic entrance had.
I nodded.
He offered one finger.
Her tiny hand curled loosely around it.
Ryan froze.
His eyes filled, but he didn’t cry.
Neither did I.
For a few seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Ryan whispered, “What’s her name?”
I told him.
He repeated it once, almost soundlessly.
My mother turned away toward the window.
I knew that gesture.
She was angry enough to cry and refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing it.
Ryan stayed beside the bassinet until my daughter released his finger.
Then he stepped back.
“I need to fix this,” he said.
That sentence made my exhaustion burn into anger.
“Fix what?”
He looked startled.
“This.
What I did.”
“You can’t fix six months.”
