I waited, then peeked through a half-open window. Folding chairs in a circle. Twelve people. My husband, head in his hands.
“The hardest part,” he said, voice breaking, “is when I look at my kid and all I can think about is how I almost lost everything. I see Julia bleeding, doctors rushing, and I’m holding this perfect baby while my wife is dying next to me. Every time I look at Lily, I’m right back there. I’m terrified if I love them fully, it will all be ripped away.”
I slid down the wall outside and cried. All this time, while I worried he might regret becoming a father, he had been dragging himself to a room full of strangers, in the middle of the night, trying to figure out how to be one.
He talked about nightmares that tore him awake, replaying the delivery room in slow motion, avoiding skin-to-skin contact because he feared his anxiety would reach her. “I don’t want her to feel my fear,” he said. “I’ll keep my distance until I can be the father she deserves.”
“Have you thought about including Julia?” the group leader asked.
He shook his head. “She almost died. She doesn’t need to carry me, too.”
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