***
A few nights later, he called from the nursery.
“Kyra, Timothy won’t settle.”
“Walking. Rocking. Singing.”
“Then keep going.”
“He doesn’t want me.”
I looked toward the doorway.
That silenced him.
Ethan sat with Timothy instead of handing him back. Ten minutes later, the crying eased.
***
A week after that, Ethan’s mother called.
“I heard he came home early,” she said.
“He did.”
“No. But he’s finally doing the work.”
Ethan heard me. This time, I didn’t soften it.
Ben and Marcus arranged a meal rotation with their wives. I accepted the food, and when someone held the babies, I slept instead of cleaning.
***
One morning, Ethan found the old fatherhood shirt folded on the bed.
“No.”
He frowned.
“You wanted the title,” I said. “Now earn it.”
Tara cried from the nursery.
“I’ve got her.”
He went without waiting for instructions or praise.
I sat at the kitchen table and wrapped both hands around my coffee.
It was still warm.
