TYLER
Harperwakes me at six-thirty, and for the first time since she arrived, the sound doesn't put me into immediate crisis mode.
I get up. I go to her. I check her diaper, which is soaked through, and change her on the table, getting the tabs secure on the first attempt, and into clean pajamas because she's peed through. Then head downstairs for a bottle, Harper fussing against my shoulder the whole way.
Nora appears in the kitchen doorway before I've finished warming the water. Auburn hair up in a messy bun, pajama pants, and a tank top. She's half asleep, but her eyes are already focused, alert in the specific way they get when Harper's crying.
"You got it?" she asks, watching me test the temperature on my wrist.
"Yeah. I've got it."
She leans against the doorframe and watches. Doesn't take over, doesn't offer commentary. Just backs me up from a distance, the way she has all week, stepping in only when I'm actually getting it wrong, and letting me do it the rest of the time. It's the most useful kind of trust. I'm learning how rare it is.
Harper latches, and the crying stops. The silence settles through the house.
"Good?" Nora says.
"Good."
She pushes off the doorframe and disappears back toward the stairs. I watch the empty doorway for a moment longer than I need to.
Nora films a clip. Tummy time, coffee, and Harper discovering a new sound, somewhere between a coo and a complaint, which she deploys unpredictably throughout the morning. I watch it back six times. I'm not sure when watching a baby make a noise became something I'd do six times in a row, but I don't question it. I just watch it again.She's mine.
"What's next?" I ask. "Developmentally."
Nora is on the couch, coffee in hand. She runs through it: head control, reaching, rolling, sitting up, and eventually crawling. She’s precise and interested, like she genuinely enjoys the subject and happens to know it all.
I'm watching her more than I'm watching Harper.
I note that and file it away.
We take Harper outside in the mid-morning. Nora grabs a blanket, and we spread it under the tree in the backyard where the shade is good. The air is warm but not heavy, the kind of morning that hasn't committed to being brutal yet, and the grass smells like someone nearby cut it recently. We lie there on either side of Harper while she watches the leaves move.
It's quiet in a different way from the house’s quiet. Birds. Someone's lawnmower somewhere. Harper’s tracking the shadows of branches above her with serious concentration.
"She's going to be clever," I say, lying on my elbows.
"She already is. Watch her eyes; she's tracking the movement."
I watch Harper. Then I watch Nora watching Harper. The morning light catches the red in her long wavy hair where it's come out of the bun, and I notice, not for the first time, that she's beautiful in away that doesn't announce itself. It's the kind of thing that creeps up on you: the line of her jaw, the way the light sits on her face when she's not performing anything for anyone. She's on her side, her expression gone soft, the professional composure set aside for a moment.
She looks like she belongs here.
The thought arrives before I can stop it, clear and uncomplicated, and I have no idea what to do with it, so I look back at Harper.
The moment happens during a diaper change.
I've got Harper on the mat in the living room, reaching for the wipes, and Nora comes out of the kitchen at the same moment with them in her hand, and we touch—just our fingers, just for a second—and we both go still.
Her hand is warm.Soft.There are calluses at the base of her fingers—from what, I don't know. I'm aware of the contact, but with a specificity that makes no sense, and I know it’s because of the thought I had outside under the tree, the one I thought I filed away but clearly didn’t file away well enough.
She pulls back first.
"Sorry." Her voice is slightly off. "Here."
She sets the wipes down and walks back to the kitchen without looking at me.
I finish the diaper change and don't think about it.