I never imagined there was anything behind the question.
Another memory surfaced unexpectedly.
Two summers earlier, at a pool party, Michael had climbed from the water with Lily laughing on his shoulders.
As he bent to set her down, his shirt lifted briefly, revealing a pale crescent-shaped birthmark near the bottom of his back.
The memory disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
Then the doctor appeared in the doorway, lowering her mask.
“Elena,” she said, smiling. “You did beautifully. He’s healthy. Seven pounds, four ounces.”
Aaron’s face lit up in a way I had never seen before.
Not at our wedding.
Not when Lily was born.
Not with any of our daughters.
“A son,” he whispered. “We have a son.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Thank you,” he said to the doctor.
Rachel, the nurse, rolled the bassinet closer.
Inside was our tiny bundled baby.
“Ready to meet Dad, little man?”
Aaron lifted our son as though he were something sacred.
“Look at him, Elena,” he whispered. “He’s perfect.”
I nodded, too overwhelmed to answer.
Eight years.
Four daughters.
And now the son Aaron had dreamed about for as long as I had known him.
“Let me get him into a fresh onesie,” Rachel said.
Aaron reluctantly handed him back.
She laid the baby in the bassinet, opened the swaddle, and unsnapped his little gown.
Then Aaron went silent.
Not the stunned silence of a proud father.
Something colder.
The whole room seemed to change.
I raised my head.
“Aaron? What is it?”
He didn’t answer.
His eyes were locked on the small of our baby’s back, staring at something I couldn’t see from the bed.
“It can’t be,” he said quietly. “It can’t be, it can’t be.”
“Aaron.”
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