She makes no attempt to move or cover herself up. I slump on the floor beside the sofa with my arm still draped over her breasts.
My eyes rake over her naked body. She’s as beautiful as I remember, but there are small changes.
She’s clearly lost a lot of weight since the baby.
Her bones are much more prominent now. They cut sharp angles in her soft figure.
But the most obvious change is the large Caesarean scar that adorns her lower belly.
I trace the scar in the same way she used to trace the tattoos on my chest. She watches me quietly, but she doesn’t stop me.
“You’ll need to tell me about it one day,” I tell her. “When you’re ready.”
She sighs. “I don’t remember much of it to be honest,” she says in a detached voice. “I was unconscious for most of it.”
My eyes meet hers, and I feel the weight of everything single moment I’ve missed in the last several months.
“Was anyone with you?” I ask.
“Geoffrey is the one who took me to the hospital,” she tells me. “You mentioned him earlier. The man from the bus station. But after that, I was on my own.”
A growl rumbles deep in my chest. Anger and regret all mixed up in one. “I wish you didn’t have to do it on your own.”
She turns her eyes up to the ceiling, and I know she’s blinking away her tears.
“I made a choice,” she replies.
I nod, but say nothing.
Then I hear a sound that sends me shooting up to my feet. A long, drawn-out cry that punctures the silence like a lightning bolt across a clear sky.
My son.
Esme gets off the sofa and turns to me.
“Do you want to meet him?”
I just nod, feeling the enormity of the moment rushing to meet me.
Once I see him, it’ll be real. It will change everything.
It already has.
Esme takes my hand and leads me to the room. The door swings open.
As I expect, the room is a matchbox. There’s a low single bed, threadbare blankets, colorless pillows.
And right next to all that sits a baby bassinet.
I hear a string of gargling noises, punctured by a sharp cry every now and again.
Then I see a little fist rise from the bassinet before disappearing from view.
I freeze instinctively, but Esme moves forward. I watch as she stands over the bassinet and looks down with a transformative smile on her face.
“Hola, little bird,” she coos, her tone thick with love. “Did you sleep well?”
I see his hand reach for her. He grabs one of her fingers tightly. Esme leans in and kisses his brow.