That shadow was gone now, replaced not by anger and not by grief but by something steadier, the settled knowledge of a boy who finally knows where he comes from and knows that he was wanted.

“She’s still watching, right?” he asked.

I looked up at the wide blue sky, and I felt the warm spring wind move past us like the brush of a hand, and I held my grandson tight against my side.

“Every single day, Noah,” I whispered, and I meant it with my whole heart, and I knew, holding him there in the warm spring light, that whatever else had been taken from us, this had been given back: a boy who knew he was loved, a mother whose bravery was finally known, and a truth that would stand, now, for the rest of his life.

“Every single day.”