“She’s like you, sunshine. She’s already smiling. She doesn’t know what life will be like for her but she’s already smiling,” Marcus says proudly. “It fits her name perfectly.”
After we learned that Soleil meant sun in French we both knew exactly what would be the name of our baby.
“I’m pretty sure that’s a reflex. You know babies don’t smile until they’re eight weeks old.”
“Who’s the grump now? Just let me say my daughter came into the world smiling.”
Laughter erupts out of me and our child cries out in response.
“Oops.”
“Guess she doesn’t like your laughter as much as I do,” he teases, snickering as he gently strokes her tiny hand. He’s more playful now. More open. The grumpiness is still there, it’s part of him after all. But a grumpy man like him has accepted me far better than cheerful people ever did. He listens when I ramble. He never tells me I’m too loud or too sensitive or too much. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this man roll his eyes.
With him I feel seen. Important. Safe to take up space.
And slowly, I’ve been learning to lower the volume on all the old voices in my head, the ones that told me I had to be less of myself to be loved. Rearranging mental blocks I put on to protect myself. He too had some hurdles to navigate. But together we’ve made it and grown.
Because sometimes, all it takes is one person in the world who believes you’re just right exactly as you are. And I’m looking right at him.
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