Laura is once again sleeping in her tiny travel crib.
It’s relatively early in the evening, but we’re both tired. Aya returns from the bathroom wearing pink panties and one of my tee shirts. It makes me smile.
“What?” she asks.
“You look good like that.”
“Like a ragamuffin who hasn’t slept in a week?”
She doesn’t look raggedy or anything. Not to me.
I strip down to my boxers and hold open the covers for her. Aya slips into bed beside me.
“Wait, I almost forgot this,” I tell her, getting up so fast that I startle both of us. “My mom gave this to me. I wanted to show you.”
I go through the bag I’d been carrying earlier and find a small framed photo. It’s of me when I was about three being held by a much younger Donna. She looked so happy.
I show it to Aya and she gasps.
“You and Laura have the same smile,” she says.
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. Wow, it’s incredible.”
Aya stares at the picture, but my eyes are on her. Then Laura.
They’re my whole world.
A tear wells in the corner of my eye, and I kiss Aya’s temple before I let it fall and start crying like a baby. I want to tell Aya that I love her but the words just won’t come out. Not right now. This feeling… the overwhelming gratitude for my beautiful wife and our baby daughter is more than I can take.
Aya puts the picture on the nightstand.
“I know, sometimes, I just look at her and…” Aya’s voice trails off and she tears up.
I wrap my arms around her and kiss her tears away.
“I love you so much,” I tell her, totally choked up. “More than I know how to say."
“I love you too, Shawn. I’ll love you forever.”
Part Two
Ian and Cora
Eleven
Ian
For better or worse, there are some moments you remember for the rest of your life.
I vividly remember the day that my mother brought my little sister Nikki home from the hospital. I asked if we could exchange her for a boy.
I remember the day my father left us and how my mother cried her eyes out for weeks before swearing off men forever.
I remember the day that my mom and Aunt Mary were killed by a drunk driver and how Nikki clung to my hand at the funeral. I remember the months afterward where I existed, half-alive, and became a hollow shell of myself.
And I remember the day that it all ended. The day Cora Dwyer’s headshot fell into my lap and we hired her for the music video. Because that was the day that the universe gave me the one thing that I couldn’t resist and told me to start living again.
And since then, there have been so many other moments seared into my memory that you couldn’t pay me enough money to give them up. There was Cora’s and my first kiss. The first time we slept together. The day I proposed to her. The day that we got married.
And most recently, the day that Cora told me that I was going to be a father.
I took my wife in my arms and held her close, tears in my eyes. I couldn’t believe it.
“Oh my God,” Cora whines, “It’s hot as balls in here.”
She flops down on the bed in our room as I fiddle with the air conditioner. Pretty soon, the room has cooled off and, thankfully, so has Cora.
“Thank you,” she mutters.
“No problem.”
“I’ll help you unpack in just a minute,” she says. “It’s just so hard to move right now.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Cora has been having a rough pregnancy. Loads of morning sickness, swelling, and back aches. She’s always uncomfortable.
And I’ve been trying to make things easy for her, but sometimes I’m afraid I’m just making it worse. I open her suitcase and one of the dresser drawers and start putting away clothes.
“Stop,” she says softly. “Come over here.”
I sit on the foot of the bed next to her.
“Lie down with me,” she whispers.
I kick off my shoes and lie down on top of the plush comforter next to my wife. At about seven and a half months pregnant, she’s got a sizable belly. I know she’s heavier than she’s comfortable being.
I want to tell her that she’s beautiful. Because she is. But she won’t believe me, so I keep my mouth shut.
I take her hand in mine and bring it to my lips.
“Thanks,” she whispers again.
“For what?”
“For… just…” She tears up before she can say anything else.
Cora’s been achy and moody, and I’ve been acting as her metaphorical punching bag. But I know she’s doing the hard part here. If this is tiring and draining for me, it’s got to be twenty times worse for her.
So, I’ll shut up and take it.
Because there have also been plenty of sweet, perfect moments like this one that make up for the less than perfect ones.
Cora lets out a painful grunt. I think she’d trying to turn over onto her side. I help her adjust until she’s comfortable. Finally, she’s where she wants to be, facing me.
“This,” she says, breathing heavy from the exertion. “If I ever tell you I want another baby, remind me of this moment.”
I laugh and reach out to massage her belly.
“I’m not kidding, Ian,” she says, looking severely exhausted. “I don’t think I can do this again.”
“I promise you never have to,” I assure her.
“I miss working,” she says. “I miss feeling like I’m in control of my body. I miss being able to walk without thinking about finding a place to sit and rest every five minutes.”
“I know.”
“I want my life back. My pre-pregnancy life. Does that make me selfish?” She sounds genuinely concerned.
“Of course not.”
“’Cause I feel selfish when I say it,” she says. “I feel like I’m supposed to be happier…”
“You’re not happy?” I ask, cutting her off.
“No, of course I’m happy,” she says. “Ian, I love you so much. And I love this baby. I’m so excited to meet her. I just… I sort of hate being pregnant.”
I smooth the hair from her face, only marginally relieved.
“I think I just see way too much on social media or whatever from expectant mothers who are loving being pregnant. They henna their baby bellies and put flower crowns on it. I don’t know. I don’t want to do any of that stuff,” she confesses. “I just want to be done.”
I lean in and kiss Cora’s cheek.
“I think most women secretly feel that way, baby,” I say, softly. “People post about the good parts and want you to think that they’re happy all the time. But I think most pregnant women feel the way that you do. At least some of the time.”
“Yeah?”
I nod. “Only they’re embarrassed to admit it.”
“Should I be embarrassed to feel this way?”
I narrow my eyes. “Of course not. You can’t apologize for the way you feel about your pregnancy. You’re the one going through it.”