Midday sky

Something catches my eye, and my breath stills in my chest. Lying in the corner, nearly hidden among the worn, scattered belongings, is a small dress. The fabric is simple but lovingly stitched, the kind of dress meant for a toddler. I fall to my knees, clutching it in my hands like the most precious material in the world. Because it is.

I press the tiny garment to my chest, my vision blurring as the teenage girl's words replay in my mind. Noelle had our child. Our child. The realization crashes over me, a tidal wave of emotion so overwhelming I can't breathe. I laugh—a strangled, choked sound—and then a sob tears through me. I laugh and cry, my heart breaking and swelling all at once.

A daughter. We have a daughter. I'm a father.