I met my children for the first time when they were nineteen days old.
In a family visitation room at Rebecca Foster’s office in Greenwich. With Rebecca there. And Margaret’s sister, Ellen, sitting in the corner with her arms crossed, watching me like a hawk.
Margaret didn’t come into the room.
Ellen carried in two car seats. She set them on the carpet.
Benjamin was awake. He looked up at the ceiling light with those serious dark eyes.
Abigail was asleep. One tiny fist tucked under her cheek. Just like in the video.
“You can pick him up,” Ellen said. Not warmly. “Support his head.”
I knelt down on the carpet. I unbuckled the straps with shaking hands.
And I picked up my son.
He weighed about as much as a bag of flour. He was so warm.
He looked at me. Not smiling. Just looking. Like he was trying to figure out who I was.
I didn’t blame him. I was trying to figure that out too.
“Hi, Benjamin,” I whispered. “I’m your dad. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
Ellen looked away toward the window.
When I picked up Abigail, she woke up. She opened her mouth and screamed.
I panicked. I didn’t know what to do.
And then I remembered Gloria’s class. I tucked her against my shoulder. I put my hand on her back. I started swaying. Slowly. Side to side.
After about a minute, she stopped crying.
She made a little hiccupping sound against my neck.
And she fell back asleep.
When I looked up, Ellen was watching me. Her arms weren’t crossed anymore.
“Margaret said to tell you she swaddles Abby with her left arm out,” Ellen said quietly. “She likes to keep that hand by her face.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Tell her thank you.”
That visit lasted one hour.
When it was over, I sat in my car in the parking lot for forty-five minutes. And I couldn’t drive.

Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
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