Another message.
You don't need to answer.
Then a photograph.
Noah sitting in a high chair, cereal across his face.
Aaron stared.
The resemblance was stronger awake.
Not exact.
Noah had Hannah's mouth.
Aaron's eyes.
Maybe his eyebrows.
It felt absurd to identify himself inside a person he'd never met until yesterday.
He typed:
Why Noah?
Hannah answered immediately.
You always liked that name.
He remembered.
Years earlier they had discussed children.
Noah for a boy.
Grace for a girl.
He put the phone down.
Then picked it up again.
When does he eat breakfast?
Three dots appeared.
Around 7:30.
Aaron stared at the screen.
Can I come over?
Hannah's response arrived seconds later.
Yes.
He stood outside his own house fifteen minutes later.
This time he knocked.
That felt wrong.
Hannah opened the door.
She looked tired.
No makeup.
Hair tied carelessly.
Noah was on her hip.
The baby saw Aaron.
He stared.
Aaron stared back.
No crying.
No smile.
Just examination.
"Morning," Hannah said.
"Morning."
She stepped aside.
Aaron entered.
Noah kept watching him.
Aaron removed his shoes.
He noticed baby gates.
Outlet covers.
Toys.
A life built around someone he never knew existed.
Hannah placed Noah in the high chair.
Aaron sat across from him.
Noah held a piece of banana.
He squeezed it.
Aaron watched.
"He's destroying that."
"That's breakfast."
"It looks violent."
Hannah smiled faintly.
"He takes eating seriously."
Noah suddenly offered Aaron the destroyed banana.
Aaron looked at Hannah.
She shrugged.
"It's an honor."
Aaron reached out.
Noah dropped the banana into his palm.
Aaron stared at the mush.
"Thank you."
Noah smiled.
It was small.
But unmistakable.
Aaron's chest tightened.
Hannah saw it.
She turned toward the sink, giving him privacy.
That morning, Aaron learned his son had six teeth.
He hated peas.
Loved bananas.
Could stand while holding furniture.
Said "Mama."
Said "ba," but nobody knew whether it meant bottle, ball, or random noise.
Loved ceiling fans.
Despised hats.
Aaron listened as if receiving an intelligence briefing.
Every detail mattered.
"What was his first word?"
"Mama."
"First tooth?"
"Lower left."
"When did he crawl?"
"Eight months."
"Does he sleep through the night?"
Hannah laughed.