My son lays on my shoulder. He’s playing with my lips now, making them move up and down. He laughs at the blip, blip, blip. His eyes begin to droop. He growls in my ear. I stroke his neck, but I do it a little hard and he stops growling. I can’t say I’m not relieved.
The nurse comes in. She looks tired too. Her scrubs are too long, scraping against the floor, coming apart in tatters. “It’s time,” she says, holding out her arms. “It’ll go easier if you wait outside.”
“Are you sure?” I say, but still I hand him over like I’m a puppet on strings. “I mean, won’t he be afraid, being here alone?”
My wife lays her nails on the back of my neck, and I almost resent the gesture. Condescending. “He’s going to cry either way. But this way, you won’t get so upset.”