did often, as if he couldn’t believe he’d been responsible for helping to create a new life. He reached out and gently ran his hand over his son’s hair. At seven weeks there was barely anything at all.
“He seems so peaceful,” he whispered, almost in awe. Denise put her hand on Taylor’s shoulder, hoping that one day he’d look just like his father.
“He’s beautiful,” she said.
Taylor looked over his shoulder at the woman he loved, then turned back to his son. He leaned in close, kissing his son on his forehead.
“Did you hear that, Mitch? Your mom thinks you’re beautiful.”
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