I held the little plastic bracelet in my fingers. It had his name and the hospital’s name and a barcode and the same number that was on my bracelet and on Evelyn’s tiny ankle bracelet.
Mother, father, daughter. A set.
I looked at Ben. He was crying again, very quietly, trying not to.
“Do you want to hold her?” I asked.
He looked up at me like I’d hit him.
“Are you sure?”
“Support her head,” I said. “She hates it when you don’t support her head.”
I stood up and walked over and put our daughter in his arms for the very first time.
He held her like she was made of glass. Exactly like I’d seen him hold his cousin’s baby at that barbecue, years ago. Like his heart was breaking.
Evelyn blinked up at him. She looked at his face for a long moment with her serious, unfocused newborn eyes.
