We argued about silly things.
He liked the thermostat low.
I liked it warm.
He preferred action movies.
I preferred mysteries.
He left cabinet doors open, and I left books scattered across the sofa.
Those disagreements never frightened me.
We were different people learning how to live together.
When I discovered I was pregnant, Ryan cried.
Not a single tear, not an embarrassed laugh.
He sat on the bathroom floor, held the pregnancy test in both hands, and cried so hard that I had to laugh through my own tears.
“We’re going to be parents,” he whispered.
He pressed his forehead against my stomach.
“Hello, little one.
I’m your daddy.”
He bought the first stuffed animal, a ridiculous pink rabbit with ears almost as long as its body.
He assembled the crib.
He downloaded pregnancy apps.
He even attended a class on infant CPR, although he complained afterward that the instructor made him practice on a plastic baby that looked like it had seen a ghost.
