Meeting My Son
A nurse entered a few minutes later.
“Mr. Redmond? You can see the baby now.”
I looked at Elise.
“Does he have a name?”
She shook her head.
“Not yet. I wanted to hold him before deciding.”
The neonatal intensive care unit was quieter than I expected. There were soft lights, monitors, nurses moving carefully between incubators.
Then I saw him.
My son.
He was impossibly small. He wore a tiny knitted cap, and a thin tube helped him breathe.
I had stood on top of unfinished skyscrapers during thunderstorms without being afraid. But looking at that child terrified me.
A nurse showed me how to place one finger through the opening of the incubator.
“Very gently,” she said.
I reached inside.
His fingers wrapped around mine.
That was all it took.
I turned my face away because my eyes filled immediately.
“Hey, little man.” My voice shook. “I’m sorry your dad is late.”
His fingers remained around mine.
And something inside me broke open. Not in a painful way. More like a door that should have been opened years earlier.
