"Because I do."
"Then knowing isn't enough." He heard his own voice get rough and he stopped and breathed. "And I'm not any better. I want you to hear me say that, too. I saw it. I saw the pajamas and the cupcake and all of it, and I told myself it was a phase. I told myself you were tired. I bought him a truck instead of opening my mouth. I did the easy thing. So this is mine too. I'm not standing here like I'm clean."
She looked at him then, really looked, for the first time all morning. Her eyes were red but still dry. He did not know if she was going to cry. He realized he had not seen her cry since the NICU.
"What do you want me to do?" she said.
He thought about it. He wanted, honestly, for her to go out there and get down on the rug and hold their son and say she was sorry in a way that would make the morning un-happen. He knew that was not going to happen. He knew that if she went out there right now, Jonah would go stiff, and Renee would feel it, and something worse would come out of it.
"Today," he said slowly, "I want you to leave his things alone. All of them. You don't touch his presents and you don't touch his stocking. I'll do it. And you don't say one word to Brie about whose fault this is. She's not going to carry this. She thinks she's in trouble with Santa. You let her off the hook."
Renee nodded.
"And after today," he said, "you're going to talk to somebody. A real somebody. A counselor, a doctor, I don't care. About your mama and about the hospital and about him. And if you won't, then I'm going to have to think about what that means. I'm not saying it as a threat. I'm saying it because I don't know what else to say."
She was quiet a long time. Out in the living room, faintly, Brielle laughed, a short surprised bark, and both of them heard it, and Renee put her hand flat over her mouth.
"Okay," she said through her fingers.
"Okay you'll talk to somebody?"
"Okay." She took her hand down. "I don't know if it'll do anything."
"Me either," he said. "But we're doing it."