“I thought you should know.”
“Yes.”
He asked whether I still wanted him to take Eleanor on the Saturday mornings we had arranged.
“Yes,” I said. “That schedule works.”
“Then I’ll be there.”
He was.
For the next several months, Alexander became a steady part of Eleanor’s life.
He learned which lullaby calmed her and which spoon she rejected when she began eating solid food.
He kept her appointments and called me after each one, not to report on himself but to make sure we had the same information.
When the specialist finally said Eleanor needed no more than routine follow-up, Alexander’s smile broke open with relief.
He did not reach for me.
Instead, he looked down at our daughter.
“You’ve been very patient with all of us,” he whispered.
Eleanor answered by grabbing his tie.
He laughed, and I laughed too.
It was the first time in years that we had laughed together without the sound carrying a hidden question.
