Page 47 of Operation Happily Ever After
“I showed her the stars.”
My hand lifts slightly, tracing the familiar shape beyond the window.
“I was going to tell her that Cassiopeia is easy to find because of its five bright stars,” I say. “They form a distinct pattern that rotates around the pole through the night.”
Ian remains still while I speak, his tiny body settled comfortably against mine.
“But before I could explain the constellation, she said, ‘There’s a W.’ She told me it was pretty,” I say softly. “She was right.” I smile. “She almost always is.”
Ian takes a deep, trembling breath, his eyes closing.
“The sky looks different when the two of you are with me,” I add, softer yet, my speech slow and gentle.
Outside, the stars burn with the same steady brilliance they’ve held for millions of years. I’ve studied them since I was a child.
I smooth my palm over my newborn’s head and study every one of his features: his round cheeks, his button nose, his pink lips, his chin, and long eyelashes, the shape of his ear.
He doesn’t open his eyes or squirm. I lapse into silence, and he sleeps.
I don’t stare at the stars. I watch him.
When I’m as sure as I can get that he won’t wake, I rise and carry him back to our bedroom. Oliver follows and trots to his own bed, settling in.
I place Ian in his bassinet, then remove my glasses and climb under the covers beside my wife.
She rolls toward me and opens her eyes. “Is everything okay?”
I tuck her against me. “Yes.”
She breathes a contented sigh and snuggles closer. “What did he need? Did you put it on your spreadsheet?” she teases gently.
I shake my head. “Me.” My lips tug upward in wonder. “He just needed me.”
