He looked at me, but did not make the moment into a question about us.
I was grateful.
In the weeks that followed, our days took on a new rhythm.
The baby’s name was Eleanor, after my mother, though I chose not to tell Alexander until he asked why I had written it on the birth certificate.
“Your mother would have been honored,” he said.
“I think so.”
He looked at Eleanor in her cradle, then back at me.
“Thank you for sharing her name with our daughter.”
“She’s my mother too,” I said, and he nodded, understanding that it was not a gift he could claim.
Alexander came when I invited him, and he left when I asked him to.
He learned how to warm a bottle, how to settle Eleanor against his shoulder, and how to recognize the small, tired sound she made just before sleep.
