You stop at the nurses’ station with a chart in one hand and a bottle of Diet Coke in the other. You open your mouth to make some offhand comment about the never-ending pile of intake forms—until you see her.

Addison. Sitting on the edge of the counter. A sleeping baby nestled against her chest in a soft wrap. His tiny hand curls under her chin, his curls a halo against her shoulder. She’s rocking him lightly with one arm and typing patient notes with the other.

You glance at the baby and then back at her. “Is that one of yours?” you ask, half joking, motioning toward the NICU wing. "What, they got you babysitting now?"

Addison glances up, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Shh. Henry just fell asleep.”

Your brow furrows. “Henry?”

She nods. “My son.”

You blink, frozen. “Your—what?”

Addison looks down at the baby and tucks his little arm closer to his chest. “Yeah,” she says gently. “My son.”