Chapter 35 Rowan
ROWAN
’Tis early in the morning, and I’m in the kitchen with a bottle warmer that hates me, so it does. The steam’s rising away in tiny ghosts, and I’m breathing through the urge to curse.
Aisling’s soft wail filters down the hall, barely a protest, more like a question. I’ve learned her cadence—three short cries, one long. Hungry. Not scared. Christ, she’s fierce consistent for one so small.
I grab the bottle and slink away through the house, taking quiet steps through the hall. Declan calls it hypervigilance. Sean calls it “Dad mode.” Willow calls it “Pink Panther mode.” Ah, sure, they’ve all a name for it, haven’t they? And I hate them all, I do. But I’ve no alternatives.
She’s awake and calm when I lift her, dark eyes wide and unblinking. I change her wet diaper, then settle with her into the chair by the window. The city outside is wet and silver.
“Alright, wee one,” I whisper. “Let’s not wake your sisters, yeah?
Just eat the bottle and go back to sleep, no screaming necessary at all, at all.
” I talk to her like she’s got hostages.
She does. She eats slowly, focused. I keep one finger tucked against her fist, anchoring her to something solid.
When she’s done, she burps like a prizefighter.
“Fair play to you,” I mutter, half-proud and half-horrified, though I can’t help smiling.
I could put her back into her crib, but it’s rare I get a moment with just one of the girls.
I hold her against me and rub my hand in circles on her back, listening to the ticking of an old cuckoo clock Willow got from her grandparents, the humming of the air conditioner, and Sean’s guttural snoring in the other room.
I used to think I was good under pressure because I didn’t feel. Turns out I was just empty, so I was. Now I feel everything—terror, awe, the kind of love that makes your ribs ache, fierce and all.
From the doorway, Willow’s voice is a whisper. “It’s Declan’s night.”
I look up, startled but relieved to see her form. God, she moves quiet as rain. She walks over to the side of the rocking chair, gentle as anything, and pulls my head in against her stomach, her fingers intertwining in my hair. “I know,” I tell her. “I was already up.”
“You’ve been up for hours. You should sleep.” Her fingers on my scalp could put me to sleep if I weren’t resisting.
“In a minute,” I lie, still enjoying the warm weight of Aisling against me.
“You’ve been saying that since midnight.”
I nod against her stomach. “Aye, well, I’m a man of consistency.”
She sighs, but it isn’t angry, more content. We watch the little girl in my arms. Sure, look at her—fully awake, alert, content, just like me—proof of life, luck, and the unplanned lives being full.
“I keep thinking we’ll mess this up,” she says.
“We will, so we will,” I tell her. “But not tonight.”
She laughs into my hair a little and kisses the top of my head before leaving the room.
I find Declan’s feeding chart binder on top of the dresser and scribble in the margins, “Ongoing experiment of fatherhood going well so far in all fairness. Results TBD.”
I look at the last thing he wrote in it. “All three fed. All three fine.” Simple. No ounces tracked, just the facts. Enough for them, him, and me.