I noticed a pale curved birthmark at the base of his back.
It looked almost like a small crescent moon.
I noticed it for maybe two seconds.
Then I forgot it existed.
Until the day my son was born.
Labor started at 2:11 in the morning.
By the time we reached the hospital, I was already having contractions less than five minutes apart.
Daniel was nervous enough for both of us.
“Do you need water?”
“No.”
“Another pillow?”
“No.”
“Should I get the nurse?”
“She was here thirty seconds ago.”
“Right.”
Ten minutes later:
“Do you want ice?”
“Daniel.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Despite the pain, I laughed.
For those thirteen hours, he barely left my side.
Then, finally, just after three in the afternoon, our son entered the world screaming.
The doctor lifted him enough for me to see.
“He looks great.”
I burst into tears.
Daniel covered his mouth.
“A boy,” he whispered.
Our son.
The child Daniel had imagined for almost a decade.
When the nurse placed him against my chest, Daniel kissed my forehead again and again.
“You did it.”
“We did it.”
“He’s perfect.”
He really was.
Tiny nose.
Dark hair.
Wrinkled little hands curled against his face.
We named him Noah.
The girls had voted on the name two months earlier.
A few minutes later, the nurse asked Daniel whether he wanted to hold him.
I had never seen my husband look so nervous.
He slid both hands beneath Noah as though someone had handed him a priceless piece of glass.
“Hey, buddy.”
His voice cracked.
Noah opened his eyes for half a second.
Daniel laughed through his tears.
“Look at him, Natalie.”
“I’m looking.”
“He has my nose.”
“He’s been alive for twenty minutes.”
“That is absolutely my nose.”
I smiled.
I remember that moment clearly because it was the last normal moment we had.
The nurse took Noah back to change his diaper and replace his hospital shirt.
Daniel stood beside the bassinet watching everything.
She unsnapped Noah’s little outfit.
Turned him slightly.
And stopped for half a second.
Not because anything was wrong.
She was simply adjusting the diaper.
But Daniel suddenly leaned forward.
His face changed.
I saw it happen.
Joy.
Confusion.
Recognition.
Then something that looked almost like fear.
“Daniel?”
He didn’t move.
The nurse continued dressing Noah.
Daniel stepped closer.
“What is that?”
She looked down.
“This?”
She touched the little pale mark near Noah’s lower back.
“Just a birthmark.”
Daniel’s face went white.
“Daniel?”
He stared at it.
Then whispered:
“No.”
The nurse looked at me.
I tried to push myself higher against the pillows.
“What’s wrong?”
Daniel didn’t seem to hear me.
“No. No, no, no.”
My heart began pounding.
“Is something wrong with the baby?”
“No,” the nurse said quickly. “He’s perfectly fine.”
Daniel turned toward her.
“Can you give us a minute?”
She hesitated.
“Of course.”
She fastened Noah’s clothes and walked out.
The door clicked shut.
Daniel remained beside the bassinet.
“Daniel, you’re terrifying me.”
He finally looked at me.
Then he said one word.
“Marcus.”
I frowned.
“What about Marcus?”
Daniel pointed toward the baby.
“That mark.”
“What about it?”
“I’ve seen it before.”
I still didn’t understand.
Then I did.
My stomach turned cold.
“No.”
Daniel gave a humorless laugh.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Marcus has the exact same birthmark.”
I stared at him.
For several seconds, I couldn’t process what he was accusing me of.
