“Good thing your baby didn’t come out six-foot and thirty-pounds.” She’s only five pounds, two ounces. Thatcher widens the door, but he hasn’t shifted enough to let me inside the labor and delivery room. My smile fades at the emotional look in his eyes. “Did something happen?” “Yeah,” he nods. “You delivered my daughter. You helped Jane.” It tunnels into me, but I’m not used to barring so much tender emotion in front of people. So I’m staring down the hallway, left and right. “She did all the work. I just cracked Olive Garden jokes.” Jane laughs inside the room. She heard me.
