The empty pit in Paul Hathorne's stomach is both familiar
and foreign to every father anticipating birth of his child.
His wife, Gila Cohen, would have let him watch the birth,
but he chose not to out of respect for her privacy. Instead,
he opted for the impersonal but somewhat less tense waiting
room, complete with apathetic chairs and indifferent nurses.
It was somewhat surprising that such a place would house
those people who were waiting for those they care about more
than anything in the entire world. On second thought, the
contrast was usual.

He paced nervously around the waiting room, images of failed
births flooding his mind. The idea of a stillborn, after all
they had gone through, was unbearable. Even the thought of a
damaged child, one who would be denied the joy of walking,
the pleasure of a functioning body, or the ecstasy of
raising her voice in a prayer to God almighty broke his
heart. Every nurse that came seemed to open her mouth to
deliver the word of a stillborn; every attendant was on the
verge of telling him of a crippled daughter; every doctor
rushing by was doing so to fruitlessly try to save the
daughter's life.

'Oh, God,' he whispered, 'forgive me for my sins of pride,
and deliver her safe and sound into her mother's arms.'

As he sat there, however, it was not piety that dominated
his mind. Instead, memories of old angers flowed into him,
desecrating his soul with anger. She admitted that the
adultery was her sin - her misstep - but, while God had
already forgiven her, Paul, somehow, could not. Nonsense, he
thought to himself, grace was not his to give or take. He
drew a deep breath, released it, and added to his prayer,
'dear God, please deliver me from my pride and my anger, and
help me see your grace in my wife's eyes.'

He remembered clearly the day in which he first found out.
She came to him, awash with tears. Just a day before, she
told him the happy news of her pregnancy, and now she felt
she could no longer hide her secret. She came seeking solace
and forgiveness; she got none. He remembered the feelings
that washed over him: The anger, the indignation, the sense
of betrayal. He could not help it, and even though he tried
to forgive her many times, he could still not look at her
with the same loving eyes as before. He remembered the pangs
of pain as he noticed her growing; not knowing whether what
was inside of her was his child or a bastard. He could not
help but wonder whether it would always be so, whether every
look he would take at his daughter would remind him of her
mother's betrayal.

Steps sounded from behind him. They were not the brisk steps
of those who rushed along the hallways, echoing as they
pass. These steps were more deliberate, more focused. They
had a target, and the target was him. He breathed deeply and
turned around.

The nurse was startled at his sudden movement, but quickly
regained her composure. ''Are you Mr. Cohen?'' she asked.

''I am Gila's husband,'' he replied. His muscles tensed.

She paused for a second, baffled at the answer, and then
glanced down at the document in her hand. Her bafflement
made place for understanding. ''Congratulations,'' she said,
''You are a father.''

Paul exhaled.

''There's one thing, though.''

His muscles tensed once again, and panic rose through his
body.

''Your daughter cannot see.''

He fell onto a nearby chair, his head spinning. For a moment
it seemed as if all his worst nightmares have come true. God
smites the wicked, he thought, knowing not whether he spoke
of himself or of another. Then, slowly, he began to recover.
The more he thought of it, the more he knew that he could
deal with it. Life would be more difficult, but every
challenge would make him a stronger, more compassionate
guardian. He stood up.

''If you want to, you can stay here and take some time to
digest the news,'' the nurse said.

''It's OK, I want to see my daughter.''

They walked, and he finally became one of those who strode,
determined, through the hallways, waiting to reach a friend
(or enemy) in need. They passed next to dozens of rooms, and
dozens of stories. Who knows? Maybe each door hid a dilemma
as large as his.

He entered the recovery room. His eyes rested on the
newborn, and he saw the defect that the nurse spoke of:
though here eyelids were fully open, her pupils did not move
as he entered the room, nor did they contract as the door
opened, bringing the glare of the hallway into the dim room.
Light would no longer enter through them. She was blind.

Slowly, unwillingly, he raised his eyes to see Gila's face.
All of his anger drained away. She was happy, filled with
the joy God gives to those who have toiled at his greatest
chore. He could finally see the beauty of her soul, one that
he refused to see for the last eight months. He got closer,
close enough to feel the warmth of her body and the purity
of her breath. He reached out to his daughter and held her
in his arms.

''I had my doubts; I now know she is mine,'' he whispered,
''She has her father's eyes.''