Page 126 of His Surrender

“When did you get so good at this?” The question slips out before I realize I’m asking it.

She looks up and smiles almost shyly. “My mom always joked that I changed more diapers before I graduated high school than most adults.”

“What if she spits it back up?” The question sounds ridiculous the second it leaves my mouth.

Aubrey doesn’t make me feel ridiculous. She never does.

“If she does, we’ll call the pediatrician.”

“What if the medicine doesn’t work?”

“Then we’ll keep watching her.”

“What if her fever keeps climbing?”

She reaches across the small space between us, resting her hand lightly against my knee. The simple touch somehow steadies me.

“One step at a time.”

I look at her hand, then back at her.

It’s amazing. Three months ago, I would’ve assumed the solution to every problem was moving faster, working harder.

Aubrey somehow makes slowing down feel like the bravest thing in the world.

I glance toward Liana. She’s already drifting back to sleep against Aubrey’s shoulder.

One tiny fist curls around a lock of Aubrey’s hair. Neither of them notices, but I do.

And for the first time since leaving my office … I manage to take a full breath.

By the time the second dose begins to work, the apartment has gone completely quiet.

Not the comfortable kind of quiet we’ve grown used to over the last month. The anxious kind. Where every tiny sound makes my head snap toward the nursery.

Every creak of the floor.

Every rustle through the baby monitor.

Every sigh I think I hear through the speaker.

I can’t stop listening.

Aubrey finally convinces me to walk away from Liana’s door after nearly an hour of pacing.

“If she wakes up,” I say for what has to be the tenth time, “we’ll hear her.”

“We will,” she confirms.

“And if her breathing changes?”

She rubs my arms. “We’ll hear that too.”

I peek into the nursery one last time. Liana’s cheeks are still pink, but they’re not nearly as flushed as they were earlier. Her tiny lips are parted as she breathes through the congestion, each inhale sounding just a little heavier than normal.

I hate it. I hate that I can’t make it disappear.

Aubrey squeezes my hand as we leave the nursery. “You did good today.”