You are proud of your daughter, and you grow to enjoy the looks of disbelief you get when you walk into the hospital, your cane clutched firmly in one hand and Sophia in your other arm. She is 6 months old, and Allison is finally coming back to work. You are thankful, because having your Immunologist only by phone during working hours for the past six months has been annoying. You do not admit publicly to missing her while you're at work.
You have sent Allison ahead to the diagnostics lab with folders for Chase and Foreman with your latest patient and you are taking Sophia to the daycare for her first day. You knew if Allison dropped her off there would be tears, and you were not in the mood to see Allison cry this morning.
You place Sophia in the arms of a woman who looks like she should still be in High School and you introduce yourself and your daughter. You don't need to – you are well known in the hospital, but you are following Allison's instructions to be at least polite, and Danielle coos at the baby and shakes your hand.
"She doesn't like bananas," you tell her, very seriously, "and she likes her car."
You hand Danielle a tiny Matchbox monster truck with the wheels ripped off. You ripped the wheels off because, while you will never admit it, you are an overprotective father and tiny wheels are a choking hazard.
Danielle smiles and accepts the car, and you're about to leave when Sophia notices and lets out a sniffle. You stop in the doorway, your back to her, and you swallow hard before you turn around.
"Sophia," you tell her firmly, "I will be back at 5. Mommy will be here at lunch to feed you."
You have never baby talked at Sophia, though Allison does. You don't see the point of cooing at her – she's young, not stupid.
Your daughter blinks at you, and you raise an eyebrow at her. She accepts her car from Danielle and you turn to leave again, glancing quickly at Sophia before you finally head out the door.
When you step into the elevator, you lean against the back wall and sigh heavily.
This was not supposed to be that hard.
You stop the elevator, taking a few moments to gather yourself and by the time the doors open, no one would ever suspect you'd been near tears. You walk towards the diagnostics room keeping your eyes focused on the floor in front of you and no one bothers you.
When you slam open the door, Allison's head shoots up.
"Did she – is she okay?" she asks, already shattering the rule of leaving home talk away from work. Instead of pointing that out, you nod.
"She's fine. Patient?"
Allison looks a little stricken, but briefs you on the 19 year old with spontaneous internal bleeding and no feeling in either of her hands. The seizure is what brought her to the ER, and the orange mucus from her nose brought her to you. You send Chase and Foreman to the lab to run tests on the samples and Allison to the patient's room to collect a better history. As the three file out, you grab Allison's arm, squeezing gently, "She's fine," you tell her again, but softer this time, and Allison sighs and nods.
Allison disappears right at noon, and you're not surprised to find her in your office with Sophia, the blinds drawn as she nurses the baby in the soft darkness. She is whispering to the little girl, her finger brushing over Sophia's cheeks and you feel as though you're interrupting a private moment.
You are quiet as you come up behind her, letting your palm rest on her shoulder. She glances up, a light smile on her face.
"I don't know why I missed her so much," she admits, and you notice a faint sheen of tears in her eyes.
You are quiet, and you let your fingers trail over Allison's cheek, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
"It will get easier," you offer, "And she's only a couple floors away."
Allison nods, focusing her eyes on the baby and you kiss her on the head before leaving her to finish.
You hate when you don't know the right thing to say.