ADVERTISEMENT
It all started a few weeks ago. We were at my parents’ house, and Isabel was looking at an old photo on the wall. It was a picture of me, Hannah, and her husband — Ava’s real parents.
“That’s Ava’s mom,” I explained when she asked.
She didn’t say much, just nodded and kept staring at the picture. I should’ve known something was off right then.
“They look happy,” Isabel commented, her finger tracing the edge of the frame.
“They were,” I replied, smiling at the memory. “Hannah had the kind of laugh that made everyone else laugh too.
And Daniel… man, he was the most dependable person I’ve ever known. When Hannah went into labor, he was so nervous he drove to the hospital with his slippers still on.”
Isabel turned to me with a suspicious glint in her eyes.
“And… how did you feel when they had Ava?”
The question struck me as odd, but I answered honestly. “Overjoyed. I was the first person they called after the baby was born.
I brought them terrible hospital coffee and stayed up all night with Daniel while Hannah slept. He kept saying, ‘I can’t believe I’m a dad.’ Neither of us could stop grinning.”
ADVERTISEMENT
