He sat down on the sofa, his legs giving way. He stared at the lines for a long, silent minute. Then, he pulled me into a hug so fierce I could feel the thrum of his heart against mine.
“Is it real?” he whispered.
“It’s real,” I said.
“A good kind of fear,” he murmured into my hair.
Mia was born in October, during a warm Indian summer. Mark was in the delivery room, his hand a steady, unshakable weight in mine. When she finally arrived, let out a lusty, indignant cry, Mark didn’t cheer. He wept. A single, silent tear for the eleven years of silence and the eighth year of my waiting.
He held her with an awkward, terrified reverence. “Hello,” he whispered to the tiny, wrinkled face. “We’ve been waiting for you for a very long time.”
A year later, we stood in the garden. The apple trees were in heavy, fragrant bloom. Mia was crawling across the grass with a look of terrifying determination, headed straight for her father’s nose.
Mark scooped her up, his laugh—a real, deep, soulful sound—filling the air.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, pulling me into the circle of his arm.
“About the bus ride,” I said, looking at the white blossoms. “About how I thought the tumor was the end of the story. I didn’t realize it was just the demolition crew clearing the site for a better building.”
“We worked hard for this,” Mark said, kissing my temple.
“We did,” I agreed.
In the distance, the bells of Arbor Hill rang out for the afternoon. I wasn’t waiting for the right time anymore. I was living in it.
The End.
