“I did not want you to know,” I sobbed, and he did not respond immediately because the urgency of the moment demanded focus.
“One more push,” he urged firmly, “You cannot pass out now,” and I gathered every bit of strength I had left.
A cry filled the room, loud and clear, and a nurse announced, “It is a boy and he weighs seven pounds.”
Tears streamed down my face as Zachary cut the umbilical cord with hands that were visibly shaking, and although he did not cry, his expression looked as though something inside him had cracked open.
Two days later I lay in the postpartum ward, watching my tiny son sleep in a clear plastic crib beside my bed while the hospital lights cast a soft glow over his fragile features. That night the door opened quietly, and Zachary stepped in wearing jeans and a simple gray shirt instead of his doctor’s coat.
He stood a few feet away from the crib as if unsure whether he had the right to come closer, and I asked carefully, “Why are you here.”
“I came to see my son,” he answered, and the word son seemed to settle heavily in the room.
He leaned over the crib and studied the baby’s face, and after a long moment he said softly, “He looks like you.”