But because he wanted to prove he could take care of something complicated and vulnerable without needing help.
“It sounds stupid when I say it aloud,” he said.
“No.”
“It was still wrong not to tell you.”
“Yes.”
“But wanting to do something yourself isn’t always wrong.”
He nodded.
“I got her through the worst part.”
“You did.”
That afternoon, he told me, Scout had batted at a piece of string for the first time.
He had sat on the garage floor for forty minutes watching her.
“I kept thinking you should see it,” he admitted.
“And every time I thought that, I told myself I’d tell you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow does that.”
“Yes.”
“It keeps moving.”
He looked at me.
“I’m glad it’s tonight.”
“So am I.”
We moved Scout into the kitchen.
Not the garage.
David brought in her blankets, bottle, formula, and an extremely detailed notepad.
“She’ll need feeding around four,” he said.
“I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“You’ve been doing it alone for four nights.”
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Thank you.”
That night, we returned to our original sides of the bed.
Mine on the left.
His on the right.
Everything immediately felt correct again.
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