Dr.

Thorne didn’t move for four seconds.

A single heavy tear spilled over the rim of his surgical mask before he wrapped my son in a blue flannel hospital blanket and laid him gently on my chest.

“I delivered Julian thirty-four years ago,” Dr.

Thorne said softly, his fingers brushing the hem of the flannel.

“He has the exact same mark behind his left shoulder.”

I looked down at the tiny red crescent on my baby’s skin as the doctor stepped back against the tiled wall.