When the guests went home, I sat with Noah on the porch where the old photograph of my mother and Richard had been taken.

The boards creaked beneath the rocking chair.

The view across the fields was almost exactly the same.

My son rested against my shoulder, heavy with sleep, his hair soft against my cheek.

I thought about the baby I had been in that photograph.

For so long I had seen her as the child nobody quite wanted, the inconvenient reminder of family arguments.

Now I imagined her as a baby held by people who had worries, hopes, and fears beyond anything she could know.