He wasn’t crying.
That alone bothered me.
My brother cried when the Dallas Cowboys lost playoff games.
He cried during our mother’s memorial.
He once cried because my eight-year-old daughter had made him a Father’s Day card that said Best Almost-Dad Ever.
But now?
Nothing.
He was staring at the nurse.
No.
Not at the nurse.
At the baby.
“Go on,” Marissa said, laughing through her tears. “Hold your daughter.”
Ryan moved forward.
Slowly.
The nurse placed the baby into his arms.
For three seconds, everything looked exactly as I had imagined.
Then the blanket slipped slightly.
Ryan looked down.
His entire body went rigid.
“What?” Marissa asked.
Ryan didn’t answer.
He moved the blanket aside near the baby’s lower back.
I saw his eyes lock on something.
Then all the color disappeared from his face.
“Ryan?”
He swallowed.
The nurse stepped closer.
“Sir, is everything okay?”
He looked at me.
I will never forget his expression.
It wasn’t revulsion.
It wasn’t even shock.
It looked like terror mixed with recognition.
Like he had been waiting for some disaster to finally choose a shape.
“What is it?” I demanded.
Ryan whispered, “No.”
Marissa’s smile vanished.
“What do you mean, no?”
He looked again.
Near the base of the baby’s spine was a small raised area beneath the skin.
Nothing grotesque.
Nothing dramatic.
But clearly something the medical team needed to examine.
Ryan’s breathing changed.
“Take her.”
Marissa blinked.
“What?”
He pushed the baby toward the nurse.
“Take her.”
“Ryan.”
“I can’t.”
My exhaustion disappeared instantly.
“What are you talking about?”
He stepped backward.
“I can’t do this.”
