Did I say that out loud? I don’t think I did.
I know I did not.
So that is You, claiming the child as Your own, loving him as Your own, even though, somehow, genetically he is not. You claim him, but honor the genetic father.
Not Caleb, but Jakob.
Jakob, the man I could have fallen in love with, had I known him. Jakob, the man, I believe, who let me go.
I’m not quite done yet, though.
I have to push again, one more time, to deliver the afterbirth.
I push through it, but I’m focused on You, now holding Camila and Jakob both, one in each arm, and the pain is nothing to the fierce wild all-consuming ache of love.
Jakob is taken, cleaned, diapered, tested, swaddled, and I’m allowed to get up and shower and eat something—it’s been hours, almost a whole day, and I’m starving.
And then I have my babies, my son and my daughter. Sleeping, nuzzling against me, mewling now, hunting. Latching on, fumbling at my nipples, and then latching on perfectly. Suckling, and the tug is sharp and beautiful as my milk flows.
And You’re there, sitting beside me, watching me feed our babies.
“I love you so much, Logan.” It’s all I know how to say, right now. I don’t even know how to verbalize or even understand myself the emotions regarding Jakob’s genetic heritage. “I just—I love you.”
You have tear tracks on Your face, and You are proud of them, I think. To weep at the birth of Your children is the mark of a man in touch with his emotions, I think; a sign of strength and confidence rather than a mark of weakness. You have brought a life into the world. A new life, and it is beautiful. It is enormous. Momentous, and life-changing.
You lean in, kiss me, kiss Jakob, kiss Camila—
So this is what completion feels like.
“What we’re looking at,” the doctor says, a day after the birth, “is heteropaternal superfecundation.”
The doctor pauses, taps the heel of a shoe with the tip of a pen. Glances at me, and I can feel the silent, unspoken, but very real judgment.
“In layman’s terms, it’s when a woman releases more than one egg in the same cycle, and those two eggs are both fertilized by sperm from separate acts of sexual intercourse with different males.” Another pause, a glance to me, to You, back to the shoes. “It is extremely rare, but there have been a few other documented cases. I’ve been delivering babies for thirty-two years, and I’ve never seen it before. What it means, practically speaking, is that the two children are fraternal twins, genetic half siblings, despite being developed and carried in the same womb.”
You speak up for me. “So how are they?”
“Camila and Jakob are doing beautifully. Healthy, scored high on all the postbirth tests, they’re eating well from Mom, great lung development. Absolutely no issues whatsoever.”
“So aside from genetics . . . ?”
“Genetics aside? They’re beautiful, healthy twins. You can go home in the morning.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” You dismiss the doctor, standing up, extending your hand. Making it clear the time to exit is now. When the doctor is gone, You turn to me, take my hand. “What a dick.”
“He didn’t say anything unprofessional,” I point out, even though I feel the same way.
“He didn’t say anything, no, but the looks he was giving you, the way he explained it...” You shrug. “Whatever. He’s gone. But I didn’t like him.”
“I felt it too. But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know me, or my life, or my situation. All I care about is you, and our babies.”
“Me too.”
And so we do.
We buckle the tiny little sleeping bundles into the car seats, murmuring at how tiny they look in the big seats. You carry them both, one seat in each hand, while a nurse pushes me ina wheelchair. You settle them on either side of me while You fetch the car, and then You click the seats into the bases, check that each one is secure, and then You help me into the SUV, practically lifting me up and in. I am weak, sore, tired, and exhilarated to be going home.
Emotionally, I haven’t really sorted through the reality of Jakob, yet. Maybe I never will.
