"Looked to me like everything was under control," he says, shrugging, and then he beams. "We have a son!"
From the moment Chase came into the world, Keith and I have had different versions of reality. Whether it's because he's already the father of a 17-year-old son or because men are from Mars, I'll never know.
"Melina was a rock star -- only pushed for forty minutes!" I hear him boasting on the phone to the onslaught of well-wishers who call the hospital to hear the news. "She and the baby are both doing amazingly well."
Surely he can't be talking about me. The day after I deliver Chase, I wake up to a major case of Buyer's Remorse. The tears refuse to quit, as if there are faucets beneath my eyelids.
"Baby blues," says the nurse, patting my arm gently. "Honey, every lady on this floor is crying. It's the hormones."
I'm sure she's right, but I'm still terrified that in two days I will be discharged as primary caretaker of this infant. I'm wondering if they could possibly let me stay for a month or so until I get the hang of things.
Sitting across the room, Keith looks almost as miserable as I do. "What's wrong?" I ask, anxious to commiserate.
