You have been holding your breath in little sips for an hour now, so I have been sneaking it in for you, quietly, behind your attention, the way I always do.
Here is what I logged in that waiting room. Jaw: locked since we walked through the doors, the back teeth pressed together like you were trying to keep something in. Shoulders: up near the ears, and they stayed there. Left hand: buried in fur, moving in slow circles, not for the small warm one in your lap but for you, because touching something alive is the oldest thing I know how to do to calm us down.
Heart: fast, then faster every time a door opened and it was not our name. I kept it going anyway. That is the one job I never put down.
Your stomach folded itself into a small hard knot around ten o'clock and has not let go. Your throat is tight. Your eyes are doing the thing where they sting and you will not let them finish. I do not know the word the human at the desk said, the one that made all of this happen at once. I only know it arrived in you like cold water and I have been bracing against it ever since.
The small warm one leaned its whole weight into your chest and I felt you steady, just slightly, around it. Good. Lean back. Let some of that weight into me; I was built to take it.
When we get home, would you do something for me. Set the little one down somewhere soft. Then drink a full glass of water, slowly, and unclench that jaw, and let your shoulders come down at last. I have been carrying the both of you.
Just for a while, let me carry only you.