Aaron’s face lit up in a way I had never seen. Not on our wedding day. Not when Lily was born. Not any of them.
“A son,” he whispered. “We have a son.”
His eyes filled.
“Thank you,” he said to the doctor.
“He’s perfect.”
Rachel, the nurse, wheeled the bassinet closer, our tiny bundled boy inside.
“Ready to meet Dad, little man?”
Aaron lifted our son into his arms like something sacred.
“Look at him, Elena,” he whispered. “He’s perfect.”
Then Aaron went quiet.
I nodded, unable to speak. Eight years. Four daughters. And now the son Aaron had wanted for as long as I’d known him.
“Let me get him into a fresh onesie,” Rachel said.
Aaron reluctantly handed him back.
She laid the baby in the bassinet, peeled back the swaddle, and unsnapped the tiny gown.
“It can’t be.”
Then Aaron went quiet.
Not the quiet of awe. A different quiet. The kind that made the room drop ten degrees.
I lifted my head.
“Aaron? What is it?”
He didn’t answer. He was staring at the small of our baby’s back, at a mark I couldn’t see from where I lay.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
“It can’t be,” he said, almost too softly to hear. “It can’t be, it can’t be.”
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