He didn’t stare rudely. He just listened for a moment. Then he said calmly, “That’s colic. I’ve heard that cry before.”
I immediately stepped in front of Emily and Lily.
“We’ve got it,” I said, sharper than I meant to.
He stopped. Raised his hands slightly. “Sorry,” he replied quietly, and went back to his seat without a hint of offense.
But my heart was racing. I had judged him in less than five seconds. And still, I kept my guard up.
Lily only got worse. Her tiny face turned red, her body stiff with discomfort. Emily was close to tears herself. I could see it — that breaking point where exhaustion turns into helplessness.
Finally, pride gave way to desperation.
I turned back to him. “I’m sorry,” I started.
He nodded gently, finishing the sentence for me. “You’re tired. And scared.”
His name was Mike. He told us he had four kids of his own — grown now. “I’ve done the 3 a.m. pacing more times than I can count,” he said.
The idea of handing my daughter to a stranger went against every instinct I had. But whatever we were doing wasn’t working. Lily was overheating from crying so hard.
Very slowly, I placed her in his arms.