She curls into the warmth of his chest like a puppy dog. Rubbing her soft baby cheeks against his stubble. Her soft hands pat his cheeks. She strokes his face gently, looking deep into his eyes.
He… He can do nothing. He’s in love. Every little thing she does is magic.
I watch, as an outsider. And then I beg. Give me a kiss, Bean.
No. She says defiantly. I kiss dada olly (only). And she plants a gentle kiss on his cheek.
He looks happier if that’s possible. Blissful actually.
Come on, I beg. Please give mama a kiss. I love you.
No. Stoutly. Another kiss planted on Dada’s rough cheeks. Soft hands caress his face. And she tucks her tiny self under his chin, and rests on the strong shoulders that once were my refuge. She’s taken them over. Little squatter.
I give up. And choose to enjoy the tableau instead.
And find my peace in the knowledge that despite all this love that I am not part of – there were 9 months that only I knew her. She was my own. Not a secret. Yet, mine to hold close and deep within. That he might have all her love today. But I had all of her for a long long time. Iss okay…
Really…. I’ll be okay. No, I’m not crying.