Della
I heard Abit’s car before I saw it. He and Fiona and the baby were heading my way while I was out front getting the mail. He slowed the Merc and pulled up next to the mailbox. Conor was so bundled up I could barely see him. His little knit cap had slipped down his forehead when Fiona cradled him close. But I’d seen this before with new parents, adding layers of protection against anything and everything.
Abit rolled down his window and called out, “Della, he’s not Abit Junior!”
“He’s not your baby?” I asked, puzzled that some changeling had come into their lives.
“No, silly,” he said. “The doctor says he’s perfect!”
He and Fiona were smiling broadly, and their happiness was contagious. I joined them with a smile of my own, relieved we could put those concerns behind us. But Abit wasn’t finished.
“Conor’s not like me, Della. He’s better than me.”
That time I couldn’t agree. I knew that wasn’t possible.