“I wish I’d asked whether you were okay sooner,” Ruth said.

Maya answered, “You can ask now.”
We ate soup at the small dining table while Liam slept beside us.

Ruth brought a photo of me as a newborn.

My father, who had died years earlier, was holding me with an expression of astonished terror.

“You look just like him when you hold Liam,” Ruth said.

For once, the comparison didn’t make me feel like a child trying to earn someone’s approval.

It made me feel connected to a better example.