She was maybe two or three months old.
Still waking through the night. Still tiny enough to disappear into my arms.
My wife and I were taking turns with feedings. That night, it was mine.
Around 2 or 3 a.m., she started crying. I got up, half-asleep, warmed the bottle, and went to her room.
I fed her a little. Then I held her—waiting for her to drift off.
And then it happened.
Her eyes closed. Her body softened. She relaxed into sleep.
And right before she slipped all the way under—she smiled.
Just a tiny smile. Barely there.
But I saw it. And I still see it.
It didn’t last more than a second. But it hit something deep.
Maybe she felt safe. Maybe she felt full. Maybe she was dreaming already.
I’ll never know. But I’ll never forget it either.
Some moments don’t need interpretation. They just stay with you.
That one has.
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