“That’s her father?”
Beverly slowly sat down.
That night, at 3:15 a.m., Wren woke hungry.
I was feeding her in the nursery when I heard careful footsteps outside.
They stopped at the door.
“Simone?”
My father.
“Is everything okay? I heard her.”
I looked up.
He stood there in a navy robe.
Seventy-one now.
Thinner.
White hair.
Older than I remembered.
And uncertain.
My father had faced boardrooms full of powerful executives without hesitation.
But he looked afraid to enter his daughter’s nursery.
“She’s hungry.”
He nodded.
“Do you need anything? Water? Food? Gregory showed me how to warm a bottle.”
He hesitated.
“I practiced.”
“You practiced warming bottles?”
“Six times.”
He showed me a faint pink mark on his wrist.
“I tested them incorrectly the first two times.”
I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
He almost smiled.
“Can I come in?”
I looked at him.
