I pulled my chair closer to her bed.
"We don't have to know how to do everything today," I said. "We'll figure it out together. One day at a time."
She shook her head.
"No, Arthur. I can't."
"You're frightened. So am I."
She turned toward the window.
"You're not listening to me. I can't do this."
For the rest of that afternoon, she refused to hold Leo.
I did Leo's bottle feeding and changing while she barely acknowledged us.
I told myself she was having a hard time coming to terms with the diagnosis.
I was, too, but I had to step up as she had just been through labor and childbirth.
I hoped she would soon realize we were in this together and we would always support each other.
That night, I woke in the chair beside her bed and saw her standing over his bassinet.
Her back was toward me.
One hand hovered above his blanket as if she wanted to touch him but could not make herself do it.
I closed my eyes before she noticed I was awake.
The next morning, she was distant again.
"Could you raise him alone?" she asked.
