The familial cluster huddles near The Door on well-worn sofas. One mother works feverishly to finish another baby blanket, while the other mother sits with a magazine on her lap, trying desperately to look casual.
The dads sit stoically side by side. One wrings his hands while the other taps out an unheard bassline with his foot, their eyes fixated on a wildebeest migration on the TV. The brothers update their Facebook statuses again and re-check college football scores. Aside from the occasional reaction to the TV, no one talks. They haven’t eaten or slept. Their necks are sore from craning around to see who opened The Door this time.
And then … I walk in. Their mouths drop open in anticipation as I beam from ear to ear. “It’s a boy,” I say. They rush over for a multi-family group hug, and everyone’s eyes fill with tears as I congratulate the newly-anointed uncles and grandparents. Then I walk them in to meet the first of a new generation.
That was how it was supposed to happen.
Maybe I watch too many 80s movies or was just plain na