Inside was a photograph. Faded, old, a little blurry. A young paramedic in a navy uniform, maybe twenty-four years old, standing beside an ambulance in the snow. He was holding a tiny, red-faced newborn wrapped in a gray blanket.
“The other paramedic took it,” Joaquin said quietly. “That night. Before we knew. I’ve kept it in my wallet for thirty-one years. I could never throw it away.” He looked at me. “That’s you, Callie.”
I held the photo next to my daughter’s face.
Then Noah took a new one. Joaquin, fifty-five now, gray-haired, in a flannel shirt, holding a tiny newborn wrapped in a SkyVista Air fleece blanket. My father standing beside him, one hand on his shoulder.
The same man. The same arms. Two babies, thirty-one years apart.
We hung the two photos side by side in Anna’s nursery, right above her crib.
Sometimes, when she’s fussy at three in the morning and I’m walking her up and down the hallway, I stop under those pictures and tell her the story.
