I was never very good at waiting.  It was the unknown that scared me the worst.  What if something had happened?  Erica and I knew this wasn’t going to go smoothly.  Yet, she would always show me her serene smile and airily sigh, “John, you’ll worry yourself into an early grave.”  That always gave me a small, shining sliver of peace when I needed it most.  Well, I really needed it now, but she was out of sight, somewhere behind those damnable metal doors.   As much as I wanted to bust them down and rush to her side, I knew that it would be unwise.  For one, I didn’t even know where she was being held.  I’m sure it would have attracted security, and I didn’t want to make anyone’s job any more difficult.  But most of all, I knew she’d be fine.  She was strong; no matter what happened to her, I knew she’d face it all with a dreamy smile.
	My darling Erica was a goddess of kindness and peace.  I’ve been in love with her ever since high school.  At the time, she was in a relationship, but she would always take time for all her friends, male and female alike.  I don’t know why she even bothered making friends with me; I was a loner and a loser with little to offer the world.  She later told me that she didn’t need a reason.  I suppose that was one of the things that drew me to her the most: she never needed a reason to be kind.  She loved everyone unconditionally, even the most despicable of folks.  She was always so peaceful, and there was a natural warmth surrounding her at all times—both physical and figurative.  I could go on and on about her virtues, but perhaps that’s because I’m blinded with love.  Perhaps I just don’t want to find any faults in her.  I suppose, if I had to name one weakness of hers, it would be her passive acceptance of the world—although, this is also her greatest weapon.
	After graduation, I began to see less and less of her.  I was a little worried, but I chalked it up to jealousy at the time.  After all, how could I compare to the six-foot-six stud of a tiger she was dating?  Me, a scrawny little mouse of one-foot-two and twenty-four pounds?  Me, with all my weaknesses and deficiencies?  All I had going for me was being the same species as she and roughly the same height.  But, I wasn’t even half the man he was… or so I thought.  He turned out to be controlling, jealous, and particularly vicious.  He cut her off from her friends and family, and I was pretty sure he was abusing her.  Yet, out of the few times I did get to hear her voice, she seemed like the same girl as always, just peacefully at ease with her situation.  It turns out Tony there had the weaker of the wills; they broke off the relationship about the time he willfully admitted himself to a psych ward.  All Erica would tell me about it was that she said “if it makes you happy” too many times.  Good girl.  I hear he’s with the Jehovah’s Witnesses nowadays.  Good for him, I suppose, but I still can’t imagine that huge, hulking tiger trying to proselytize in a tie and a button-down shirt.
	After that incident, she began to reconnect with everyone in her life—ravenously so.  I don’t think I’ve talked so much about myself in my life.  I had begun college, the first term of which she had missed by now.  She said she’d return the following year but needed some time for herself.  I thought she meant she wasn’t ready for a relationship so soon, so I tried to keep my distance.  Yet, every step back I took, she took two steps forward.  I couldn’t believe my ears when she asked me out first—not in my wildest imagination had I thought she’d ever choose me!  Out of the hundreds of males in her life, we ended up together.  We began to date regularly for about two years, after which I began to put away the money from my meager income to make enough for a ring.  The proposal could’ve gone better; I was a bumbling fool and I could barely spit out the words.  Fear raced through my heart as I waited for her response, carefully watching her expression for the slightest clue.  There was no excitement on her face, but she didn’t seem particularly troubled, either.  Instead, there was that peaceful aura about her, the one that had disarmed my panicky nerves so many times before.  She agreed, but she wanted one of us to graduate first.  Given that I was further along in my studies, that would be me.  Getting a job was easy, if only because she had amassed such a vast network of friends and could network far better than I.  So, I began to slog through the mountain of student loans we had accumulated.
	It was only a few months after we were married and a few weeks after she began graduate school on her way to a Ph.D. in psychology that we learned she was pregnant.  I suppose I should’ve been happier with the news, but at the time we were facing massive debts with only one of us working full-time.  Plus, I had no idea what kind of father I’d be.  I was—and still am—timid, flawed, and barely able to provide for the two of us.  How could I be happy about having another mouth to feed?  But, I tried to be happy for her—she was overjoyed at the news.  Well, she was placidly content to the untrained eye, but I knew her well enough by then to understand the subtleties.
I began to take on extra hours at work, hoping to crank out as much money as I could before the baby was born.  She had a unique request regarding the pregnancy, however: she wanted to do things the old-fashioned way.  This meant that I wouldn’t get to see the sonograms, learn the gender of my son or daughter, or even learn if it was developing all right.  This scared me more than anything else had before.  Even my wife’s usual smile was losing its magic, unable to put my mind at ease.  She was fine, though—always strong.  She’d sing to the baby and caress her rapidly-growing belly, but never a grey hair did sprout from her head.  I… I began to hate her for it.  I couldn’t accept this… it was my child, too!  I tried to juice the doctors for details, but they were fairly close-lipped about it.  I don’t know if I was going crazy with worry or if it was real, but I could sense from what they did say that there was something wrong with Erica and that the child might turn out a little “strange”.  This did not help.
All this worry and bitterness was eating away at me.  The worst part is, I had nobody to talk to.  My old friends from high school and college had gone their own ways, while her friends would undoubtedly take her side.  I had stopped going to church in order to work weekends, as well, and I despised my co-workers for being able to live such care-free lives.  Worst of all, I couldn’t even talk about this to my very best friend in the world: my wife.  All this negativity built up inside me with no way out.  To make things worse, I wasn’t eating well, and Lord knows there wasn’t enough time in the day to get in any exercise.  At nights, I’d fidget away on the computer, my bleary eyes glazed over in the midnight dark broken only by the glare of the monitor.  Sleep, it seemed, wasn’t going to be easy to find.
By the time she went into labor, I was already at my wits’ end.  I rustled through the magazines in the waiting room while my wife was going through who-knows-what behind those mocking doors.  Every time a doctor passed through them, my eyes were trained on them like a sniper.  I clung to every word they muttered, and my mind went to work extrapolating any potential news about my wife or unborn child.  When they mentioned any medical condition whatsoever, I envisioned my wife suffering from it, be it anything from osteoporosis to prostate cancer.  That’s how messed up my mind was.  Finally, a three-foot-odd skunk in a long, white coat and called out my name.  I jolted out of my seat and rushed over.  I watched him like a hawk.  He took in a deep, labored breath—not good, not good!—and then bit his lip as he hesitantly said, “Follow me.”  My heart sank, but my mind was racing, desperate to know what was going on.  Even the worst news would be better than dangling over the hellish precipice of nescience.
He brought me into a side-room and closed the door behind him.  I looked around the room—empty?  What was going on?  “Please, take a seat,” he requested.  My body complied, but my soul achingly issued a weak, pathetic “no…”  I placed my hands on my thighs as I listened to the doctor.  He took in another deep breath and exhaled sharply.  This… this was going to be bad.  “I’m sorry, but…” No…  no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO! “…your wife has died.”  I clenched my jaw and dug my fingers into my thighs, clawing at my own flesh as I braced myself against the news.  My eyes were averted, but tears of rage eked out the corners and carved canyons down my cheeks.  My wife, not even in her thirties… no, NO!  I railed against the heavens for stealing back their angel.  I even began to growl, of all things!  I tried to listen as best I could, but my heart was raging in my chest.  I caught a few words and phrases here and there, such as “pre-eclampsia”, “broken pelvis”, “internal hemorrhaging”, and “pre-existing trauma”—the latter of which I knew meant she was raped.  My facial muscles clenched in rage as I imagined myself throttling a predator six times my size.  How DARE he rape my wife, a woman far smaller than he!  How dare SHE keep this secret for so long—and how could she force me to stay in the dark about all this?
“Sir?  Sir?” the insistent skunk spoke.  My head snapped up and stared him down, my tiny snout caught in a snarl.  “There’s more…  about your son…”  …son?  …SON!  My heart was lifted for a mere second, but I could feel it plummeting back to earth.  “He’s in critical conditions.  His vitals are low, he can’t breathe on his own, and…” …and the rest of it got drowned out by the seething fury and desperation in my heart.  I jumped out of the chair and flung open the door on my way to the NICU (I forget what it stood for, but I recall it was where babies were sent when they couldn’t survive on their own).  My son—MY SON—was alive, and I’ll be damned if I don’t get a chance to see his beautiful face before…  before…
…and that’s where I stopped thinking.  I just bolted down the hallway, my eyes darting around to find any sign of my baby boy.  The doctor, whose thrice-long-legs were having trouble keeping up with me, was shouting out directions as we rushed through the hospital.  I could see a few security staff join the chase, but as strong and as fast as they were, I was descended from the wily Sir Jerry and wasn’t about to be caught.  My desperation led me into a room with a couple dozen infants in plastic, makeshift cribs, along with a few specialized boxes with extra medical equipment.   My son had to be in one of those.  “That one, on the left!” the doctor cried out.  I hastily slung a nearby stepstool over and climbed up to the side of the box.  I don’t think I could ever be prepared for what I saw inside.
A child was in that box, all right.  It was barely living, barely moving.  A hose was pushed down its throat; various wires were hooked onto patches placed on his chest; and an IV bag led down to a needle in his nubile arm.  Yet, this… this was not my child.  It couldn’t be.  I looked back at the doctor, who I noticed was holding back a beefy bull and dog.  He nodded encouragingly, so I looked back at the boy.  Could I even call him that?  He had the body of a miniature adult, though “miniature” could only apply to his height (or length, in this case) of four feet.  His muscles were that of an Olympic god, and his package… well, I looked away, but it was immense.  But this was definitely a baby; there was no mistaking the face.  It just wasn’t my child; it couldn’t be.  “This…  there has to be some sort of mistake,” I protested.  Anger still coursed through my veins, but confusion was at the forefront of my heart now.  “We ran several paternity tests,” he replied calmly, which must have been why I had so much of my blood drawn, “and beyond any reasonable doubt, you are definitely the father.”  My head snapped back and gazed into the closed eyes of the giant lion cub.  If what he said was true, then… perhaps there was some great feline ancestor in my family tree or hers.  I looked at the devourer of my species again, closely examining him once again.  He had a strong jaw, definitely a future carnivore, but the feline eyes were so soft, so much like his mother’s.  There was something about his face—maybe the cheeks, maybe the brow?—that was unmistakably mine, but I couldn’t put my figure on what.  But most of all, I could feel it in my heart… this THING—NO!  This BEAUTIFUL creature—was MY BABY BOY!  My soul would have soared if I hadn’t seen how vulnerable he was, all curled up and almost lifeless.  He… he was just barely hanging on, wasn’t he?  I placed my hand on the glass, and to my surprise, he reached out and placed his right next to mine.  Gosh, his paw was so much larger than mine!  It could wrap around my body easily.  It was so warm, too—I could feel it through the glass!
One of the machines—a heart monitor, perhaps?—decided to go berserk right then.  Like a room of wailing infants, when that one went off, so did every other mechanical device nearby.  The laboratory attendants rushed to the consoles and examined everything.  “Is he going to crash?” asked the doctor urgently.  “No…” insisted an astounded technician, “he’s… recovering!”  The doctor pushed me aside, nearly making me topple off my step-stool.  Soon, a small crowd had gathered around the appliances.  The attendant began to rattle off a bunch of figures I could barely understand.  Then, one of them yelled, “He’s choking!  Get that tube out of him!”  They rushed and began detaching the little lion from the machinery, and soon I heard the telltale rushing of breath, as if the kid had almost drowned.  I pushed my way back into the throng and finally reached out through the open glass and grabbed his hand.  Slowly, he opened his eyes—those big, beautiful eyes!—and smiled.  Then, he giggled and began to purr, sounding like a high-pitched engine being revved.  He reached out with his other hand and yanked me off the stool, pressing me against his bare chest as he idled.  I hugged him back, my smaller arms grabbing as much of his powerful pecs as I could reach.  I stayed there in that warm embrace, unable and unwilling to move.  I was smiling but sobbing uncontrollably now, and my son’s manly musk made it hard to breathe.  I think he could sense my mixed emotions—the miracle of his birth and the sorrow of our loss.  He began to rub his cheek against mine and purr louder.  Was that a thing cats did?  I played along and returned the favor.  
Around me, I could hear the doctors going about additional testing and other concerns, but they seemed so soft and distant.  Their words rolled down my skin like raindrops, lulling me to sleep.  When I rested my head against his chest, the steady percussion of his heart crashed into mine.  I could feel my fears, worries, and insecurities crumbling apart under the mighty tremor.  A coursing river of tears cut through the decayed remains of the once-impregnable fortress, washing it all away.  I didn’t want to move, even if I could writhe free of my son’s strong grasp—I was content to stay there in his embrace and drift away into slumber.
	I awoke hours later after the most restful sleep I’ve had in a while.  Returning to the waking world was a sobering experience, as the weight of reality began to hang upon my head.  There was so much to do, and above all I needed to see my darling Erica again.  That would involve getting up, though.  My son’s warmth was intoxicating, and I almost didn’t want to pry myself away.  It seemed my son wasn’t a fan of the concept, either, as he moaned and tried to grasp me tighter.  Eventually we reached a compromise, and I ended up carrying my very-heavy son on my back.
	Walking down the halls with his incredible weight made my muscles strain and my breath run ragged.  What’s more, the bloodied battlefield of old worries and regrets were reinforced with new cares and concerns.  How was I going to take care of this giant carnivore? Just how big was he going to get, even?  Could I afford it?  For that matter, how can I work and care for him at the same time?  But most of all, how can I do this without Erica?  How could I go on without her?  This plague of locusts buzzed about in my mind as I trudged onward through those bleak and sterile halls.  Yet again, I was foolhardy and stubborn, not even knowing where to go.  Yet, in time, I managed to shoulder my burdens and find the morgue.
	I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to be there.  Yet, insistent as I was, I shoved my way past all obstacles in my relentless pilgrimage.  Upon thrusting wide the double-doors, I found the room devoid of life—to be expected, yes, but there were no attendants there, either.  A few corpses covered with pristine sheets lay upon cold, metal tables in the chilly room.  Most of them were too big to be my dearest, but there was one likely candidate.  I drew myself close and slowly peeled back the sheet.  There before my eyes was an angel of indescribable beauty, as peaceful and radiant in death as she was in life.  The color had drained from her skin, but the marble pallor suited her.  Sweat clung to her brow and throat, likely from the stress of childbirth.  Her face was that of a brave warrior, contorted with pain yet enduring through seasoned resolve.  Her hair was splayed out in all directions, the flaxen strands appearing as rays of light emanating from her head.  It seemed as if, even in death, she had achieved a profound victory.
	I placed my hand upon her face, at first just resting it upon her lukewarm cheek but soon erasing the strain and pain.  Dexterous fingers unfurled her brow, softened her eyes, and slackened her jaw.  Her lips parted ever so gently, and I spread them into a smile. This… this is the way I wanted her to be remembered—not for her strength but for her beauty and peace.  Seeing her there, now beyond help and hope, struck true at my heart, and I quickly took her hand into mine, holding it to my face.  I lowered myself to her, if only to mourn her ever so briefly.  In touching sympathy, my son bent down and gave her cheek a couple slow, sympathetic licks.
I slowly pulled away as I was now left alone with my troubles.  I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come.  I wanted to scream, but my voice only crackled and popped, eliciting a few concerned licks from my son.  But in the end, I just wanted to curl up and hide.  I couldn’t deal with all of this right now, and I had no idea how to move on.  I looked once more at my wife, hoping against all sanity that she could somehow provide me a miracle solution.  I thought myself a fool for hoping a corpse could aid me, but then I saw where her hand had landed when I previously let go of it.  Her fingers grazed the edge of a side-table containing her personal effects.  I saw that her phone was open—was she trying to call someone?—and immediately picked it up.  Her contact list was open, full of hundreds of close friends of hers.  I knew that any one of them would go out of their way to help me, as I would for them.  I clutched the phone to my chest and smiled.  Dried-up wells spouted anew with precious life-blood, water pouring out of my eyes.  An innocent, sympathetic cackle above me echoed the joy in my heart as I realized that I wasn’t going to be alone, that I just might be able to make this work.
“Tell me another one, daddy!”
I chuckled and stroked the bridge of the muzzle upon which I now lay.  My sweet, sweet boy is all grown up now, far beyond any size at which I could have imagined.  I’m no bigger than his smallest toe, but he adores me with all his heart.  Every time he looks at me with those enormous, golden eyes, his soul pours out eagerly from them.  Every time he calls me “daddy”, even at 25 years of age, he does it shamelessly and with all the love his massive heart can muster.  He may be a legal adult, but he’ll always be my child.  He usually acts like one, too, albeit a well-behaved boy.  He’s extremely affectionate, and he’s even chiseled out a hearty sense of morality and ethics despite his massive size and carnivorous nature.  He wasn’t the easiest boy to raise, but I wouldn’t trade those experiences for the world.
“Ahah, not tonight, son.  It’s getting late, and we both need our sleep.”  I patted his nose and jumped down onto his chest.
“Awww…” he whined, pouting a bit.  He didn’t fight me on this, though.  Instead, he yawned nice and wide.  For a moment, that maw seemed to take up the entire horizon, and I could see all the way to the back of his maw.  He closed it, though, smacking his lips a bit.  “Oh-kay,” he sighed.  “Good night, daddy.  I love you so very much…”  His voice was filled with a desperate yearning as he said those final words of the night.  He simply smiled and began to drift off to sleep.
I nestled down in the massive, striated muscles of his chest, able to hear his heartbeat and breathing.  “I love you, too,” I echoed, a peaceful smile spreading across my face.  “Good night…”