When I finally gave birth, ten days past my due date after fourteen hours of labor at Ashgrove General, Renee started crying the second the nurse placed Nora in her arms.
“She’s perfect,” Renee whispered, over and over, tracing one finger along the baby’s tiny cheek like she still couldn’t quite believe any of it was real after five years of hoping.
Then Desmond took the baby from her, cradling Nora carefully against his chest, and I watched my brother’s face do something I’d never once seen it do in thirty-four years of knowing him.
He stared down at her for a few seconds, completely still.
Then his face went pale, all the color draining out of it at once, the same way I’d once seen it drain out during the worst week of our mother’s illness, years earlier.
“Desmond?” I asked, my voice rising with something between confusion and fear. “Is everything okay?”
He cleared his throat, still staring down at the baby, his hands visibly starting to shake around her tiny weight.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t take her home.”
