I never once, in nine months, felt that I was growing my child.

I felt, the entire time, that I was keeping something safe for people I loved until they could take it home — the way you might tend a friend’s garden while they are away, watering it faithfully, watching it grow, loving the work of it, without ever once confusing the flowers for your own.

The baby was always theirs.

She was theirs from before she was anything, theirs in the wanting that predated her by years, and I was only the place she was safe while she became ready for the world.

There was no relinquishment at the end because there was no possession at the beginning.