My father came up the steps, pulled off his gloves, and sat beside me. He looked at his grandson with a softness that made his whole face change.
“He’s got your eyes,” he murmured.
“And your strength,” I whispered back.
They had looked at my father’s dirt-stained hands and assumed weakness. They never understood that hands can grow roses… and still know how to protect what matters.
My father watched the baby breathe, slow and steady.
“He’s safe now,” he said.
And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.
