Hers

My first-born, Hannah, is many things. Principled. Creative. Tenacious. She’s also a month away from becoming a mom. Add to this list a skilled photographer, so when I asked her to take photos of our house in Salisbury for Airbnb, I was happy that even at this late pregnancy stage, she said yes.

One thing Hannah is not is effusive, diametrically opposed to me, a gusher. I’m sure I annoy her, and she can deflate me. But when we went to Salisbury, we were on the same agreeable page.

The sun was out, our house ready for its close-up, and Hannah did a great job (though Hannah being Hannah would say she did an okay job). Then, we took Charlie on a brief off-leash walk on the Appalachian Trail before getting lunch. Hannah was halfway through her sandwich, telling me that her brothers were coming in on Saturday to help her and Dan, her partner, put together furniture for the baby’s room, when I opened my mouth to blurt out that she can’t possibly fathom the love she will have for this tiny being she’s gestating, the ferocity of it, something I only know because she taught me when she was born.

Instead, I reign myself in, acting like a normal person while wrapping what’s left of my grilled cheese sandwich for Charlie, leaving Hannah to find her own inadequate words, feel her own overwhelming feelings for the marvel she can’t yet even begin to imagine.