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“Good morning.” She smiles against my shoulder.
“Da-da-da-da-da,” sounds through the room, and I look at the video monitor to see our two-year old baby girl standing in her crib, swinging her stuffed bunny.
Devon moves off me, but I tug her back and slip the covers over her. “We’ll get you up for breakfast.”
Her face fills with a look of love that I’d give anything to see every minute of the day. “Thanks,” she whispers and buries her head into my pillow.
I pop into the bathroom, pull on some shorts, brush my teeth quickly, then grab the box out from under the counter and put it by the sink.
When I get to Emma’s crib, she squeals and gives me a toothy, slobbery grin. Her eyes glimmer the same shade as Devon’s, and my heart clenches. She’s a clone of my wife in every way except for her dark hair. I change her quickly and put her down, watching her waddle until she breaks out into a run.
Her little voice fills the house as I follow closely, knowing exactly where she’s headed. As soon as she finds the closed door, she sits and looks at me expectantly. I walk quickly to the kitchen, get her milk and the baggie of cheerios, and then go back to her.
The second the door opens, she bolts to the oversized leather chair and crawls up. I scoot her in my lap and give her the first round of breakfast.
We sit in silence for a few minutes until she raises her eyes to me, giving me the sign. It’s time.
Ever since Emma could crawl, she loves to be in Devon’s office. We started a small tradition about six months ago. On the Saturday mornings I’m home, we sit in the office together, and I tell stories of all the pictures on the wall. This isn’t the only room in the house covered in frames, but it’s the room Devon spends most of her time in, so she’s lined almost every inch, including her desk, with photos of our life.
“Want to start at the beginning, little angel?”
She screeches her reply.
“This is your mom and me our first Christmas together.” I pick her up, take her to the wall, and point out Devon and I in Aspen. My mind travels back to that day and thinking she couldn’t get any more beautiful. But she proved me wrong through the years.
I go through the motions of pointing out every detail to the squiggly baby in my arms.
Devon’s graduation—both of them—and all the pictures of family surrounding her.
My first deployment, when the whole crew came, and Quinn snapped a shot of Devon holding me so tightly I felt like she crawled into my skin.
Devon, Crystal, Quinn, and Shana at the Olympics with the Gold Medal winning gymnastics team. All their smiles are so big, you’d think they won the medals.
The news crew covering the return of my ship into port. The cameraman getting the perfect shot of Devon running to me as I braced for the impact.
Devon and Shana in the hospital with Shana’s newborn son in her arms.
Quinn and Devon at Quinn’s wedding the week after Grad School Graduation.
All the girls at Crystal and Morgan’s wedding in Jamaica.
Devon’s first nationally recognized article on the US families affected by terrorism.
Devon and Quinn’s first award–winning piece on child prostitution rings.
All of us at Nate and Jamie’s wedding three years ago.
Quinn and Dean holding their son.
When we get to the eight by ten frames hanging over the fireplace, I stop and take Emma’s little hand and point.
“That’s your mama and daddy on our wedding day.” Then I turn. “And this, little girl, is the day you were born. Look at that princess.”
My eyes get misty at the portrait of the three of us in the hospital bed. Emma was so small and wrapped in a fuzzy pink blanket.
“That’s also the day I lost my mind because I agreed to name you Emma Quinn. But when your mama looked at me with tears in her eyes, full of so much love, I’d have agreed to anything.”
Emma giggles and slaps me playfully.
