After Four Daughters, My Husband Finally Got the Son He'd Been Begging For – But When He Held Our Newborn Boy for the First Time, His Words Made My Stomach Drop
Michael had done the school runs when my back gave out in the third trimester. He had picked up Chloe from ballet, sat with Ava at the pediatrician when I was on bed rest, brought us groceries on Sunday afternoons. Aaron's best friend since they were fourteen — tall and easy, part of the furniture of our lives.
Once, Aaron had come home early and found Michael and me laughing over coffee at the kitchen table.
"You two look comfortable," he'd said.
He'd smiled when he said it, and I'd rolled my eyes. But that night, he asked how often Michael came by when he wasn't home.
"He's healthy. Seven pounds, four ounces."
I'd laughed then, too. I hadn't thought there was anything underneath the question.
I thought of him suddenly at a pool party two summers ago, climbing out of the water while Lily shrieked from his shoulders. His shirt had ridden up as he bent to set her down, briefly exposing the pale crescent-shaped mark near his lower back.
Then the memory slipped away as another wave of exhaustion pulled me under.
"Elena," the doctor said from the doorway, her mask lowered, her eyes crinkling. "You did beautifully. He's healthy. Seven pounds, four ounces."
