Hemingway just held onto her tightly until she was ready to speak again, and when she did he found that she was talking herself to her own answers, which was good. At least she could reason her own way out of it again.
"Sure, I can understand that," he said softly. He'd definitely had the same fears before; he hadn't wanted to look at his own sons out of fear. He knew what it was like to be so afraid of fucking up that you froze, even when logic was staring you in the face. "He's so happy, he's so loved and loving. That happy little laugh just rings through the apartment every day," he reminded her.