The stiff, irritated expression vanished.

He looked like the man who had cried when the doctor announced our daughter was breathing.

“She’s gotten bigger,” he whispered.

“Newborns do that,” I answered.

He sat carefully and I helped him position her with her head supported.

He was awkward, but gentle.

For fifteen minutes the room was quiet except for Paisley’s tiny noises and the ticking of the kitchen clock.

Then Lucas said, “Mom’s been miserable since you left.”