As gently as possible, Tyson slid his arm from under Belle and rolled off the bed to the carpet. Peeking up and over the edge at the thump his knees made as they hit the floor. Belle was still asleep. Snore soft, hand resting on the lump which was their child. Even in her sleep, she comforted it.
He belly crawled into the bathroom. Refusing to stand or turn on the light until the door was shut. Turning to the toilet he stopped, bothered by the soft pink light illuminating the nursery and tipped to close the connecting door, only to be drawn inside.It was a beautiful room. The kind designed to bring out the parental instinct. The urge to cuddle and protect. Yet, it made him afraid. Everything within him trembled.
The big man, the one able to console and help his wife laugh at her fears, was actually petrified at the thought of a defenseless infant. In all of his thirty-five years, he’d never been more terrorized-at least not as much as he was now.
The thought of being a father was nothing when compared to the thought of being a father of a child that might not survive into birth. He may have fooled Belle into believing he had faith in a positive outcome, but the truth was, doubts pounded him. Beat him into the wimpy kid who always ran to his older sisters for solace and words of bravado. Chased him to the home of Cornelia, where he believed, sharing his fears would get him sympathy. The betrayal floored him.
He’d wanted someone to pull him close and say, It will be all right. You have no need to worry, it won’t happen to your baby. Not your child.
He wanted to hear agreement in the fact, his wife had made the best decision for the love of her child. That if she had no choice but to do it again, he would be the man strong enough to stand by her and love her through it.
He wanted to get a consoling pat on the back and be told even his small doubts in the decision was ridiculous, it would all be for the best. The denial of comfort , slayed him.
He wanted to get a consoling pat on the back and be told even his small doubts in the decision was ridiculous, it would all be for the best. The denial of comfort , slayed him.
He wanted to be the one who teared up in joy at the tiny items purchased in anticipation of his child. Instead, he teared up at the thought of the things not being used. The mountain of brand new baby paraphernalia remained stacked on the dressing table and packed in the bags in the corner of the room.
Tyson fingered the newly purchased blanket sitting in the middle of the crib. A pile of soft pale blue and mint green thickness. He pulled it to his face and sobbed huge, silent crocodile tears into the fabric. Fear had a hold on his heart. He was back to being the eight year old little boy, standing in the doorway of his mother’s room, eaves dropping on a conversation that nearly tore his world apart. Then, he was pulled into the loving arms of his family. Allowed to grieve and receive comfort. But that wasn’t the man he was now.
Here he stood, the man of the house, the comforter, the one who wiped the tears, not the one to be allowed to cry into a ball of material.
Here he stood, the man of the house, the comforter, the one who wiped the tears, not the one to be allowed to cry into a ball of material.
The arms, silently slipped around his waist turned him around, held him close, and rubbed his back. Tyson gladly pulled her close. Resting his cheek on the top of her head, their child, nestled in the embrace, thumping between them.
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