He should have died that day. The bus came too fast, the world too loud, the ground too hard. But Calvin Evans lived, somehow. He came home bruised, limping, quieter than before. And when you told him you were pregnant, he just stood there, staring at you like the universe had decided to give him a second chance and a heart attack all at once.

He laughed once, a sharp, broken sound. Then he said, “I thought I had lost everything. I did not know there was still more to keep.”

After that, everything changed. He followed you everywhere, muttering that you should not be carrying heavy things, that the stairs were dangerous, that you should eat more protein. He tried to cook once and burned the eggs so badly the smell stayed for days. Still, he kept trying. He brought you books about child development and read them aloud at breakfast, as if logic could prepare either of you for what was coming.

And then she arrived. Madeline. Small, pink, furious at the world for being cold. You watched him hold her for the first time, his hands trembling. He looked at her like he had finally solved something impossible.

Tonight, the house was still. You stood in the doorway, watching him on the couch, the baby asleep in his arms. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair a mess, but his smile was soft.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low. “She finally fell asleep.”