Chapter 27 #2
She looks up and smiles almost shyly. “My mom always joked that I changed more diapers before I graduated high school than most adults.”
“What if she spits it back up?” The question sounds ridiculous the second it leaves my mouth.
Aubrey doesn’t make me feel ridiculous. She never does.
“If she does, we’ll call the pediatrician.”
“What if the medicine doesn’t work?”
“Then we’ll keep watching her.”
“What if her fever keeps climbing?”
She reaches across the small space between us, resting her hand lightly against my knee. The simple touch somehow steadies me.
“One step at a time.”
I look at her hand, then back at her.
It’s amazing. Three months ago, I would’ve assumed the solution to every problem was moving faster, working harder.
Aubrey somehow makes slowing down feel like the bravest thing in the world.
I glance toward Liana. She’s already drifting back to sleep against Aubrey’s shoulder.
One tiny fist curls around a lock of Aubrey’s hair. Neither of them notices, but I do.
And for the first time since leaving my office … I manage to take a full breath.
By the time the second dose begins to work, the apartment has gone completely quiet.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet we’ve grown used to over the last month. The anxious kind. Where every tiny sound makes my head snap toward the nursery.
Every creak of the floor.
Every rustle through the baby monitor.
Every sigh I think I hear through the speaker.
I can’t stop listening.
Aubrey finally convinces me to walk away from Liana’s door after nearly an hour of pacing.
“If she wakes up,” I say for what has to be the tenth time, “we’ll hear her.”
“We will,” she confirms.
“And if her breathing changes?”
She rubs my arms. “We’ll hear that too.”
I peek into the nursery one last time. Liana’s cheeks are still pink, but they’re not nearly as flushed as they were earlier. Her tiny lips are parted as she breathes through the congestion, each inhale sounding just a little heavier than normal.
I hate it. I hate that I can’t make it disappear.
Aubrey squeezes my hand as we leave the nursery. “You did good today.”
I let out a dry laugh. “I spent the entire day panicking.”
“You spent the entire day loving your daughter.”
I move my shoulders around, trying to relieve some of the tension. “Those felt like the same thing.”
“They usually are.”
The bedroom feels strangely unfamiliar tonight. I’ve slept here thousands of nights. Yet, somehow, after a day like today, everything feels different.
The lamp casts a warm glow across the room while the city lights flicker beyond the windows.
Normally I’d appreciate the view. Tonight, I don’t even glance at it.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees, staring absently at the hardwood floor.
For the first time in years … I feel completely helpless.
Fatherhood doesn’t care how successful I am. It simply asks me to love someone enough that watching them hurt feels unbearable.
The mattress dips beside me. I don’t have to look up to know Aubrey has joined me.
She sits quietly for a moment, close enough that our shoulders brush.
She doesn’t rush to fill the silence. “She’s going to be okay.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I nod. “I know.” The words come out automatically.
She studies me for a second. “You don’t sound convinced.”
I rub both hands over my face before letting them fall into my lap.
“I keep thinking …” I shake my head. “What if I miss something? What if I don’t notice she isn’t breathing right? What if …” My voice catches. “What if I fail her?”
The room grows impossibly still.
Aubrey turns toward me, one leg folding beneath her as she reaches for my hand. Her fingers weave between mine without hesitation. “You know what I saw today?”
I look at her.
“I saw a dad who left work in the middle of the afternoon because his daughter had a fever.”
A faint smile tugs at one corner of her mouth.
“I saw a dad who checked her temperature every twenty minutes because he wanted so badly for her to feel better.”
She gives my hand a gentle squeeze.
“I saw a dad who kissed her forehead every single time he thought no one was looking.”
My eyes close. “I wasn’t exactly subtle.”
“No.” She smiles. “You really weren’t.”
Despite everything, I laugh.
“I also saw a man who kept asking questions.”
I shake my head. “I asked too many questions.”
“You asked because you wanted to understand.” She brushes her thumb slowly across the back of my hand. “Good parents don’t know everything. They ask and they learn.” Her eyes hold mine. “You did both.”
I stare at our joined hands.
Somewhere over the past month, holding her hand has become the most natural thing in the world.
“I couldn’t have done today without you.”
She immediately shakes her head. “Yes, you could.”
“No.” I look at her. “I mean it. If you’d told me this morning that Liana was getting sick and you weren’t here”—I let out a slow breath— “I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done.”
“You would’ve figured it out.”
“Maybe eventually.” I smile weakly. “But not before convincing myself she needed emergency surgery because she had sneezed twice.”
That earns me a real laugh.
“You are a little dramatic.”
“A little?”
She folds her lips together to try and hide her smile. “A lot.”
“I’ll accept that.”
She laughs again, the sound light enough to loosen something that’s been wound tight inside my chest all day.
I don’t even think. I simply slide one arm around her waist and gently pull her toward me. She comes willingly, settling against my chest as though that’s exactly where she belongs. I wrap both arms around her.
For a long time, neither of us says anything. I listen to her breathing while I feel the slow rise and fall of her chest against mine. Somehow, it steadies my own.
“I’ve spent my whole life believing I had to have all the answers.” The confession surprises even me. “I thought being successful meant always knowing what to do.” I shake my head. “Then Liana came along.”
“And now?” she whispers.
I smile into her hair. “Now I realize the smartest thing I did today was trust someone who knew more than I did.”
She tilts her head back just enough to look at me. “I didn’t know more.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I’ve just been around more babies.”
“Exactly.”
A sleepy smile spreads across her face. “So, next time, you’ll panic a little less.”
I laugh quietly. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“I wasn’t.” She reaches up, smoothing a piece of hair that fell across my forehead. “But maybe”—her fingertips linger against my temple— “next time you’ll remember that you don’t have to do it alone.”
The thought of raising Liana by myself terrified me from the day I learned she existed. I convinced myself I had to become everything she needed overnight.
Today showed me something different.
Liana didn’t just need me. She needed people who loved her.
Ones who stayed calm when I couldn’t and knew how to comfort her while I was busy imagining worst-case scenarios.
Without either of us ever planning it, Aubrey has become one of those people.