My five-year-old sat at the table next to me—a sheet of white paper in one hand, a purple marker in the other. He was drawing circles with eyes and mouths, experimenting with eyebrows and angles—happiness, sadness, surprise, love, anger, even anxiety.
It was Father’s Day. So I’d waited, and then asked her myself.
“Are … you pregnant?”
She laughed.
“Yeah …”
Nothing.
“Are you upset?”
Nothing.
“Say something. Please.”
At last, I smiled.
She exhaled.
“Oh, thank God. I was so scared that you–”
I walked over and embraced her.
“I know. Me too.”
Next to me, Corbin lined up his drawings.
“What else is there, Daddy? Did I miss any?”
I looked at the page—the faces.
“No. It looks like you got them. They’re all here.”