His eyes go wide. The logic works itself out on his face in real time. “Does that mean Dad is the luckiest person in the world?”
A deep, husky voice comes from behind us. “Sure am, son.”
I turn around.
Walker is in the doorway. Shoulder against the frame, arms loose at his sides, toothbrush forgotten in his hand. His eyes are bright and he's looking at the two of us with an expression that is completely raw.
He heard all of it.
Every word.
It’s written all over his face, what he’s seeing here. What we could be. What we already almost are.
The three of us in this small room, doing this ordinary thing. The most ordinary thing, just a bedtime routine. Except that Jonah’s never really had this, his daddy and someone who loves him like a mother on either side of him, tucking him into bed. Letting him know there’s always a soft place to land and people to love him.
We take our usual places on Jonah’s bed, him in the middle and Walker and I on either side. All three of us taking turns reading a book, just like usual.
Jonah’s eyes are drifting shut but he’s fighting sleep with everything he’s got. He keeps wanting one more book. Not wanting this to end.
I know the feeling.
In the soft light of his nightlight, sitting all close like this, it feels like we really are a family.It feels like something that’s breaking my heart to leave behind.
When Jonah’s eyes flutter close, my eyes meet Walker’s in silent agreement. He starts to rise, and so do I, but then Jonah puts a hand out, staying him.
“Daddy,” Jonah says. Eyes still closed.
“Yeah, bud?”
“Sing ‘You are my Sunshine’.”
Walker sits back down. And then he starts to sing. It’s just his voice in the dark room.No guitar, no performance. The only audience here, besides Jonah and me, is the stuffed toys arranged around the room.
In this moment, he’s just a father singing his son to sleep.
And it’s beautiful. His voice in that register, low and warm and stripped bare, might in fact be one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard.
I lay on my side and watch the two of them. My throat is tight. The tears come before I can stop them, and I don't even try.
By the second verse Jonah's breathing has gone slow and even, the fighting-sleep tension gone out of him. Walker lets the song trail off.
He's already in dreamland.
I straighten up. Walker waits for me, then takes my hand. He closes the door gently.
“When he was born,” he murmurs, a soft look on his face, “he had some trouble breathing. He had to stay in the ICU for a few days. That was the first song I ever sang to him. I held his little body against my chest and I’d feel the change. His breathing would get better as soon as I started singing. Go slow and deep and strong. Those little fists would curl around my finger. Now I think that song imprinted itself on his brain.”
His gaze focuses on me again. He sees the tears and his eyes widen.
“Baby? What’s wrong?”
“You’re just…” I hiccup. “You’re a really good dad. Every kid should be so lucky, to have a father like you.”
He gathers me into his arms. “Fuck, Sadie, now you're gonna make me cry.” His voice is husky but I hear the smile underneath it.
“I’m just hormonal,” I sniffle, trying not to outright sob. Which is true, but not even close to the whole story.
“Okay,” he says, clearly not believing me, just rubbing my back in those slow circles.
