Vincent mutters at me, holding my eyes for all of a second before glancing back down in spellbound adoration. “I won’t have you suffering like that again.” “Whatever you say, babe,” I laugh tiredly, feeling blissed out and euphoric as I watch my husband cradle our son in his strong arms. I’ll remind him of that statement when we have sex again and he’s forced to wear a dastardly condom. A hundred bucks says he throws his morals out the door on that one. I’d thought nothing could top the joy I’d felt when Vincent had shown me that room and revealed the endless depths of the love he feels for me. I’d been wrong, I now realize, watching him breathe reverent words of love at Caleb Allan Blake, the son I’d prayed for when I’d found out I was pregnant again. I shudder lightly just thinking about that harrowing time of joyful hope and fear as we’d waited for the ultrasound and proof that we could finally be excited, and that the baby was where it should be and was healthy.
