Not in the normal new-parent way.
In a strained, brittle way.
Still, they seemed proud of their little one. Noah was beautiful—tiny, delicate, with serious blue eyes that always seemed to be searching for something. Every time I held him, I felt that impossible rush only grandparents understand: a kind of love that arrives fully formed and fierce.
That Saturday morning, they asked me for a small favor.
“We just need to get out for a little while,” Megan said, pulling on her coat with rushed, jerky movements. “Groceries. Pharmacy. A couple things for the house.”
“Of course,” I said. “You don’t even have to ask.”
Daniel kissed Noah on the forehead, but even that looked distracted. “He was fussy last night,” he said. “Might be gas.”
Megan gave a tired laugh that didn’t sound like laughter. “Or he just hates sleep. Like his father.”
Daniel didn’t answer.
Leave a Comment