Around two in the morning, a night nurse named Wilma came to check the baby’s monitors. She was older, with silver hair and reading glasses on a chain.
“You’re the airplane mom,” she said, smiling. “Whole floor’s talking about you.”
“Is she really okay?”
“She’s more than okay.” Wilma adjusted the little hat. “You know what I see a lot of with babies born early and outside a hospital? Cold. Low sugar. Breathing trouble. Your girl came in warm, pink, and mad as a hornet.” She glanced at me. “Somebody wrapped her right, kept her skin to skin, kept her warm against you. That’s old-school training. You don’t see a lot of that anymore.”
She patted my shoulder and moved on.
I sat there thinking about the tears on Joaquin’s face. About his hands, going still.
At six the next morning, Noah came in with two coffees and his phone.
