He held my baby girl like she was ours, and our girl looked so tiny in his arms. He cradled her against his chest. “Are there scars?” I asked him. “Numerous scars,” he told me, and something about the way he said it made me think that he cherished them—every single one. He lowered his head, nuzzling the top of hers, and my daughter opened her eyes and looked straight at the man I loved.
