I Was Told My Newborn Had Died—Then My Eight-Year-Old Son Asked Why Daddy Had Paid Aunt Rachel to Take the Crying Bundle

“You get to be her brother,” I said.

“You don’t have to be the person who rescues everybody.”

He looked toward the nursery.

“Can I read to her later?”

“Yes.”

“What book?”

“You can choose.”

That was a choice sized correctly for him.