The Child Who Carried His Name
A year after marrying Reid, I found out I was pregnant.
That evening I put a tiny pair of baby shoes in a box.
Reid opened it.
Stared at them.
Then at me.
“Are you serious?”
I nodded.
“Very.”
His eyes filled up instantly.
“I’m going to be a dad?”
“You already are.”
That made him cry even harder.
Brielle desperately wanted a little brother.
She got one.
We named him Everett James Calloway.
When the older Everett heard the name, he went completely silent.
I worried we’d overwhelmed him.
“You don’t like it?”
He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes.
“Give me a minute before I embarrass myself in front of everybody.”
The first time he held the baby, his hands trembled.
This man who’d spent decades negotiating contracts, running companies, living in rooms far too quiet — now holding a baby named after him against his chest.
“Well,” he whispered, “I suppose life wasn’t finished surprising me.”
