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

He looked at me before answering.

“You can eat,” I said.

He opened the package carefully, then offered me a piece.

I accepted it because I had barely eaten either.

We sat at a small table away from the working area.

Someone had left a pencil and blank paper there.

Ethan drew the blue puppy with ears larger than its head.

He asked whether I thought the ears were right.