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

“She’s here,” I said.

He sat beside me.

The blue puppy waited on its shelf.

The jar stayed in his bedroom.

His lunch money was in his bag, where it belonged.

I held my daughter while my son began reading.

For once, neither child had to solve anything for the adults.

They only had to be children.