By the time the airplane door opened, Greg had looked at Anna’s photograph at least thirty times.
He enlarged her face.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Read Daniel’s message.
Checked Emma’s.
Then returned to the photograph.
“She has Emma’s nose.”
“She is approximately forty minutes old.”
“She has her nose.”
“Fine.”
“And maybe Daniel’s chin.”
“Greg.”
“What?”
“Get off the airplane.”
He looked up.
Everyone ahead of us had already moved into the aisle.
“Oh.”
We collected our bags and moved through the terminal at a speed just below running.
Greg had apparently decided that technically obeying airport rules still permitted him to walk like a man pursuing a departing train.
At baggage claim, I caught his sleeve.
“Slow down.”
“I’m walking.”
“You are overtaking people on the moving walkway.”
“They’re standing.”
“That is permitted.”
He stopped.
For a second, impatience flashed across his face.
Then he exhaled.
“Right.”
I touched his arm.
“She’s there.”
“I know.”
“She’ll still be there in twenty minutes.”
“I know.”
He looked at the photograph again.
“I just want to see them.”
“So do I.”
Michael was waiting outside the hospital when our taxi arrived.
He looked exhausted.
Greg barely let him finish the hug.
“How is Emma?”
“Good.”
“Pain?”
“Managed.”
“Complications?”
“No.”
“Baby?”
“Good.”
“NICU?”
“No.”
“Feeding?”
Michael raised one hand.
“Dad.”
Greg stopped.
“Sorry.”
Michael smiled.
“They’re both good.”
That sentence seemed to reach him in a way the messages had not.
Both good.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Okay.”
We followed Michael upstairs.
The maternity floor smelled like disinfectant, coffee, and something faintly sweet I could not identify.
At the nurses’ station, Greg became suddenly quiet.
The room number was only twenty yards away.
He had crossed states to get here.
Now he hesitated.
Michael noticed.
“You coming?”
“Yes.”
But Greg stayed still.
I understood before he spoke.
“What if she’s sleeping?”
“Then we leave.”
“What if she doesn’t want visitors?”
“She asked us to come.”
“That was before surgery.”
“Then we knock.”
Greg nodded.
Such a small thing.
Knock.
Wait.
Be invited.
He walked to the door.
Then knocked.
Daniel opened it.
His hair was a mess.
His shirt had a stain near one shoulder.
He looked like a man who had aged ten years and become happier at the same time.
Greg stared at him.
Daniel smiled.
“You made it.”
Greg stepped forward and hugged him.
Not the polite embrace they usually exchanged.
A real one.
Daniel seemed surprised.
Then hugged him back.
“She okay?” Greg whispered.
“She’s okay.”
“And you?”
Daniel laughed into his shoulder.
“I have no idea.”
Greg pulled away.
“That sounds right.”
Then he looked past him.
Emma lay propped against pillows.
She was pale.
Her hair was tied badly behind her head.
She looked exhausted.
She also looked happier than I had ever seen her.
“Hi, Dad.”
Greg stopped.
His face folded.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He crossed the room.
Then stopped again beside the bed.
“Can I?”
Emma held out her hand.
Greg took it.
He bent and kissed her forehead.
No questions.
No inspection.
No demand for details.
Just a kiss.
“You scared me.”
“I scared myself.”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
That was enough.
I hugged her next.
There are moments when being someone’s mother collapses time.
I could see the woman in the hospital bed.
I could also see the newborn I had once held.
The toddler with cereal in her hair.
The teenager slamming a bedroom door.
The young woman carrying boxes into her first apartment.
All of them existed for one impossible second.
Then a small sound came from the bassinet.
Greg turned.
Everything else disappeared from his face.
Anna Susan slept beneath a striped hospital blanket.
Only the top of her head and one cheek were visible.
Greg approached as though the bassinet contained something wild.
“She’s tiny.”
Emma smiled.
“Five pounds eleven ounces.”
“I know.”
“Of course you know.”
He leaned closer.
Anna moved one hand.
Greg inhaled.
“Look at her fingers.”
“We’ve seen them,” Daniel said.
“All ten?”
Daniel laughed.
“Yes, Greg.”
“Good.”
Emma looked at me.
“He’s holding back.”
“Heroically.”
Greg ignored us.
Anna made another small sound.
Then opened her eyes.
Greg froze.
“Hi.”
His voice changed completely.
Soft.
Almost uncertain.
“Hello, Anna.”
Emma watched him.
“Want to hold her?”
Greg looked alarmed.
“Now?”
“No, at her college graduation.”
He glanced at Emma’s incision area.
“Are you sure?”
“Dad.”
“I mean, if you want—”
“I want you to hold your granddaughter.”
Greg swallowed.
Daniel lifted Anna.
Greg automatically put out his arms.
Then stopped.
“Wait.”
Daniel stared.
“What?”
“Support her neck.”
“I know.”
“Right.”
Daniel smiled.
“You want to do this?”
Greg looked embarrassed.
“Yes.”
Anna was placed into his arms.
For a moment, Greg did not move.
I had seen him hold both our children.
I remembered how confident he had seemed.
One arm beneath the body.
Hand behind the head.
Natural.
Certain.
Now he looked terrified.
“She weighs nothing.”
“She weighs five pounds eleven ounces,” Emma said.
“That is practically nothing.”
Anna shifted.
Greg adjusted instinctively.
There it was.
Thirty years vanished.
His body remembered.
He looked down.
“Hi.”
Anna’s eyes closed.
Greg smiled.
Then cried.
Not loudly.
Tears simply moved down his face.
Nobody teased him.
He touched one finger to her hand.
Anna’s fingers closed around it.
That finished him.
“Oh, come on.”
Emma laughed.
“What?”
“She grabbed me.”
“That’s a reflex.”
Greg looked offended.
“Let me have this.”
Daniel laughed.
“Sorry.”
For ten minutes, Greg held Anna.
He did not ask what she needed.
He did not check a chart.
He did not try to become indispensable.
He simply sat with her.
Then a nurse entered.
She needed to check Emma and the baby.
Greg immediately stood.
“We’ll go.”
Emma looked surprised.
“You don’t have to.”
“We can get coffee.”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You can stay.”
He hesitated.
The nurse smiled.
“I’m fine with grandparents.”
Greg sat again.
The nurse checked Emma’s blood pressure.
Asked about pain.
Examined Anna.
Greg listened.
I watched the questions gathering behind his eyes.
Finally the nurse mentioned that Anna had lost a small amount of weight since birth.
Greg leaned forward.
“How much?”
Emma pointed at him.
“One.”
“What?”
“One question.”
He smiled sheepishly.
The nurse answered.
The amount was normal.
Greg nodded.
Then visibly swallowed the next six questions.
Emma laughed.
“You’re sweating.”
“This is difficult.”
“I appreciate the effort.”
After the nurse left, Daniel went downstairs with Michael to get food.
That left the four of us.
Emma.
Anna.
Greg.
Me.
For several minutes, nobody spoke.
Then Emma said, “Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I need something.”
His entire posture changed.
“What?”
There was the old Greg.
Ready.
Emma saw it too.
She smiled.
“Sit.”
“I am sitting.”
“Emotionally.”
I laughed.
Greg frowned.
“What do you need?”
Emma looked down at Anna.
“I’m scared.”
Greg’s expression softened.
“About what?”
“Everything.”
He waited.
“I keep checking whether she’s breathing.”
“That’s normal.”
“I know.”
“I did it too.”
Emma looked up.
“You?”
“Constantly.”
“You never told me.”
“You were the baby.”
“I mean later.”
Greg smiled faintly.
“I was busy pretending I knew what I was doing.”
Emma looked toward me.
“Did he?”
“No.”
“Laura.”
“You once drove to a twenty-four-hour pharmacy because Michael sneezed three times.”
“It was an unusual sneeze.”
Emma laughed.
Then winced from her incision.
Greg’s face tightened.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He stopped himself from standing.
Emma noticed.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she said.
“Parenting?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody does.”
“You did.”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Emma studied him.
Greg looked at Anna.
“We learned you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You arrived knowing nothing about us. We knew nothing about you.”
He smiled.
“We figured out each other.”
Emma’s eyes filled.
“What if I mess something up?”
“You will.”
She stared.
I covered a laugh.
Greg continued.
“So will Daniel.”
“Comforting.”
“You asked.”
Emma smiled.
Greg leaned closer.
“The important things aren’t ruined by one mistake.”
Something in his voice told me he was speaking beyond parenting.
Emma seemed to hear it too.
She reached for his hand.
Then she said, “That’s what I need.”
“What?”
“When I call you scared…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t fix it immediately.”
Greg blinked.
Emma continued.
“Sometimes tell me I’m doing okay.”
He looked down.
“I can do that.”
“And if I actually need help, I’ll ask.”
He nodded.
“I’m going to fail at this occasionally.”
“I know.”
“Probably often.”
“I know.”
“But I’ll try.”
Emma squeezed his hand.
“That’s enough.”
Anna began crying.
Greg instinctively stood.
Then stopped.
Emma held out her arms.
“I’ve got her.”
He sat.
Those three words might once have sounded like rejection.
Now Greg watched his daughter lift her own daughter.
Emma adjusted Anna against her chest.
The crying softened.
Greg smiled.
“She knows you.”
Emma looked down.
“Think so?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation.
“She knows you.”
That evening, we checked into a hotel six blocks away.
Greg objected.
Emma had a spare room.
Daniel had said we could stay.
But I insisted.
“They need their house.”
“They said we could—”
“They need their house.”
Greg considered that.
Then nodded.
At nine, he received a picture from Emma.
Anna asleep.
Caption:
We survived our first hour without you.
Greg laughed.
He replied:
I never doubted it.
He showed me before sending.
“That true?”
“No.”
I laughed.
He sent it anyway.
The next morning, Emma was discharged.
We helped them home.
Greg carried bags.
Daniel carried Anna.
I watched Greg notice that arrangement.
He did not challenge it.
At the apartment, the rocking chair stood near the window.
Michael’s old chair.
Emma’s chair.
Now Anna’s.
The scratches remained.
Greg ran one finger along the wooden arm.
“Looks good here.”
Emma smiled.
“I thought you’d refinish it.”
“I almost did.”
“Glad you didn’t.”
“So am I.”
That afternoon, while Emma slept, Daniel sat with Anna in the rocking chair.
Greg and I washed dishes.
He looked through the doorway.
Daniel rocked slowly.
Anna slept against his chest.
Greg watched for several seconds.
“He’s good.”
“Yes.”
“I used to worry he wasn’t ready.”
“You worried nobody was ready.”
“That’s true.”
Daniel adjusted the blanket.
Greg turned back to the sink.
“He doesn’t need me to teach him.”
“No.”
Greg washed another plate.
Then smiled.
“Good.”
That night, as we walked back to the hotel, his phone rang.
Denise.
Greg answered.
His expression changed almost immediately.
“What happened?”
He listened.
“Tonight?”
Another pause.
“How many?”
I knew that tone.
Rescue emergency.
Greg looked at me.
Then said, “I’m out of state.”
A pause.
“No. I can’t.”
He listened.
“Call Marcus. He trained on neonatal intake last month.”
Another pause.
“Yes. He can handle it.”
Greg ended the call.
“What happened?”
“Four abandoned kittens.”
I almost laughed at the symmetry.
“Do they have someone?”
“Marcus.”
“And?”
Greg looked toward Emma’s apartment building behind us.
“And I’m staying here.”
No guilt.
No frantic search for flights.
No belief that he alone could solve the problem.
I took his hand.
“You okay with that?”
He considered.
“Yes.”
Then his phone buzzed.
A message from Marcus.
Got them. All four stable.
Greg read it.
Smiled.
And put his phone away.
Click here to continue reading: PART 22: Greg Returned Home as a Grandfather, but a Quiet Crisis at the Rescue Showed Him the Difference Between Being Important and Being Irreplaceable
For Three Weeks Greg Left Our Bed After Midnight, and One Missing Family Keepsake Made His Explanation Impossible to Believe
Part 21 of 24
