She's beautiful, so beautiful, just like her mother.

I failed miserably in the tug-of-war between mine and Diane's genetics, but the loss doesn't feel so bad.

I hold the small lump of life in my arms as she coos. Her eyes are closed shut and her limbs are flailing weakly under the fuzzy blanket. I know these are just vibrant signs of liveliness, but I can't help but shiver.

We did it.

I look down at Diane.

She's fast asleep already, looking to be at peace. I wish I could have made one last joke before she slid into well-deserved dreams. If anything, hearing her laugh would have helped me stifle the tears pooling in my eyes right now, making me blink a few too many times.

The nurse walks in.

She smiles at me as I cradle the newborn and do a funny, unintentional dance.

Goddammit! I look pathetic with the tears running down my face.

Diane would have thought it a hilarious sight.

With that keen memory of hers, she probably remembers my foolish claim years ago, that I would hold back the waterworks at this exact moment.

Whatever! I'm crying, so what? I'll give her the signal for her bazillionth triumph over me when she wakes up.

I hesitate and kiss my daughter's tiny hand.

In all honesty, I don't know what to do.

Do I keep on holding her or what?

I turn to ask the nurse, but she's suddenly frantic.

She's looking rattled, her expression grave.

She double-checks the monitors in the room.

She holds Diane's wrist.

What on earth is she doing?

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Shouldn't she let Diane rest?

The nurse then turns me to me, her once rosy cheeks turned dull and pale all of a sudden.

It doesn't take me another moment to realize what's going on.

I swear my grip almost loosened on the baby.

No.

No, it can't be.

My feet suddenly stow a dreadful cold that ascends through my bones and turns me numb all the way to my head.

The nurse... she can't look at me.

Neither can I.

I briskly approach Diane and call her name over and over again.

She doesn't answer.

She too, can't look at me anymore.

***

It's been a tragic two years.

I used to despise the idea of going through the motions. I thought it always had to be self-imposed.

How foolish.

For someone in their mid-twenties like me, what I went through while being in so deep, proved more treacherous than I could have thought.

I have the vigor to sustain prolonged depression.

Thankfully, going back to school has helped me keep my sanity somewhat.

Diane was a huge part of my life, but only after she passed on did I realize just how tremendous her value was.

She held up my campy dream to become a stand-up comedian.

She came to all my small gigs and cheered me on.

Her smile made everything bright and gave the illusion that I was actually funny. Whether I was or wasn't didn't matter at the time. Her chuckles and applause were enough.

I haven't laughed since that day in the hospital.

The best I can do is smile whenever little Diana speeds across the living room while beating at the air with her adorable juice bottle.

She's an odd child.

She's way too active for her age.

She barely sleeps as long as she should.

She eats anything edible.

"Daddy, door! Someone's at the door!"

And she talks like a pre-schooler.

Is it the TV?

***

A year has passed.

I've just barely managed to scrape by.

Picking back up accountancy in order to get a job turned out well.

I've been with precious company, which isn't so bad.

I can at least hang out with other poor souls that have no families to celebrate the holidays with.

I've even managed to laugh a few times, though getting really familiar with my workmates has led me to shock them when I reveal that I'm only twenty-six.

What is so odd about it? Has my face changed? Whatever. At least most of my jokes are well-received.

Diana continues to amaze me.

Her obsession with pineapple juice is especially adorable... and it's also just about the only thing I can comprehend fully about her.

Short of hiring a shrink, I've had to ask tens of mature women at the park a series of questions. Nothing too surprising, just the occasional "How tough is a three-year-old's skin?" and "Can your child solve a series of algebra too?"

I've honestly attempted to check the television stations available back home.

Since I've been saving quite a bit for Diana's education, I've considered having her go to school early.

Her intellect is obviously superior to that of anyone her age.

I probably should have her thoroughly examined medically, but a part of me refuses.

Is this the legendary overprotectiveness I have often heard fables about?

Or is it perhaps something much, much more obvious?

I realized that it was the latter today when I came home from work and found the little redhead holding up the fridge in her hand, her eyes eagerly looking for something where it had stood...