It’s a simchah, it’s a baby, a son for him and Batya. So what if the word son rips his heart clean in two, so what if his insides wrench from the pain of it
“If you’ll just excuse me,” says a nurse, pulling back the curtain that brushes Uri’s shoulder. She’s trying to maneuver an IV pole across the ward, a tangle of wires and awkward rubber wheels. Uri shuffles his plastic chair closer to where his mother-in-law stands, cooing over the hospital crib. Something in the way she leans toward the baby, placing two hands on the rim of the bassinet in an almost possessive gesture, irks him.
“So I think we’re gonna be discharged later today, isn’t that amazing?” Batya’s giddy with adrenaline, her words are looping over and around each other like they’re on a roller coaster ride. It’s the fourth time she’s told him about her anticipated discharge. His mind flicks back, another hospital, another birth. He squelches the memory.
“It’s great,” he starts to say, then realizes Batya had directed that last comment to her mother. The words die on his tongue.
Blue eyes flutter open, and Uri leans forward reflexively, but his mother-in-law swoops in first, wrapping her arms around the baby and nestling her cheek against his tufty hair. He shrugs, even though something tells him to stake out his rights as father. But there will be plenty of opportunities to hold the baby.
Create a free account to keep reading.
