I’ve considered this confession for weeks, ever since it happened. The incident occurred on April 17th, at approximately 2:18 AM, according to the digital clock on the dresser. My youngest daughter, Sarah, had brought her newborn, Eleanor, over for the weekend. We live a block from the old elementary school, you know the one, where the kids used to walk. She needed a break, and my wife, Martha, was thrilled for the baby fix. I usually consider myself quite removed from this sort of thing now, the constant demands of infancy. I’ve done my time. That particular night, Eleanor began what could only be described as a sustained vocalization event, a cry that cut through the old double-paned glass. Sarah was asleep, exhausted, and Martha, bless her, snores like a freight train once she’s out. So, as the designated 'spare adult,' I retrieved the infant. She was not hungry, not wet. Simply unsettled. I held her, walking a slow circuit of the living room, the Persian rug muffling my steps. The low hum of the refrigerator, the distant rumble of the last freight train crossing the old commuter line — these were the only sounds beyond her diminishing whimpers. She eventually quieted, her small body a warm weight against my chest. Her breath was shallow, rhythmic. It was in that moment, standing there near the bay window overlooking Mrs. Henderson’s perfectly manicured lawn, that it struck me. Not an emotion, not exactly. More like a sudden, severe drop in atmospheric pressure. I looked down at her, this tiny, impossibly vulnerable creature. Her entire future, unknown, unwritten. And the stark, undeniable calculation hit me: I am 71 years old. Assuming average life expectancy, and a measure of good fortune, I might see her through adolescence. Perhaps her high school graduation. But the idea of her reaching her own middle age, say, 45 or 50? Of me being alive to witness that phase of her life? The probability of that is negligible. Essentially zero. The sensation was not grief, not sadness, not even fear, though elements of those may have been present. It was a cold, precise analysis of my own mortality, framed by the vivid, undeniable reality of her youth. A direct comparison of two vastly disparate points on the same timeline. The knowledge was immediate, absolute. It wasn't a philosophical musing. It was a fact, as concrete as the weight of the child in my arms. I stood there, motionless, for what felt like an extended duration, until my arm muscles began to ache. I considered waking Martha, but what would I say? "I’ve just had a grim statistical epiphany regarding my paternal longevity?" I eventually returned Eleanor to her bassinet, the realization still suspended, crystalline, in the air around me. I returned to bed, but sleep did not follow. The digital clock on the dresser changed to 3:00 AM, then 4:00 AM. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the numbers running through my mind again and again. The suburban quiet was oppressive. The neighbors would soon be up, starting their morning rituals — the clatter of the garbage cans, the low thrum of the first car backing out of a driveway. The world, oblivious. I still feel it, that calculation. It’s not going away.