“Actually, no,” Paisley corrected herself, with the flawless logic of childhood.

“If the hospital calls to save another little kid, you need to be late again.” Zachary looked down at his daughter.

“You sure about that, pumpkin?” “Yes,” she said simply.

“Because I’m only sitting here right now because she was late to her old wedding.” In one sentence, a six-year-old had summarized the entire meaning of my life.

We married a few months later, in a small garden terrace in San Antonio — my mother flown in, a scattering of my colleagues from St.

Luke, no crowd of distant acquaintances, no show staged for anyone’s approval, only the people who actually loved us.