I walked down the aisle at my son’s wedding and sat in the chair reserved for the bride’s father.
People thought I was confused.
I wasn’t.
My son, Aaron, gave me a look I had never seen before — not anger, not embarrassment, but something close to panic.
The bride, Maya, froze mid-step. Her father stood at the back of the church, hands locked together, staring at me like he already knew why I had done it.
Twenty-two years ago, that man and I stood in the same hospital hallway.
Different delivery rooms.
Same night.
My wife had just given birth to our son.
His wife had delivered a baby girl.
There had been complications.
A nurse had made a mistake.
For a few minutes, two newborns were placed in the wrong bassinets.
It was caught quickly.
But not before something else happened.
