Ruth had suggested picture books with sturdy pages and a small bag of washable blocks.

I carried them like fragile glass.

Mason sat on a rug, turning a toy steering wheel.

Bryce was at a low table trying to fit an orange block through a square opening.

They were eight months old, round-cheeked and intent on the serious business of discovering how the world worked.

Megan knelt beside them.

“This is Garrett,” she said gently.

“He’s here to say hello.”