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

I did not want to become the person who privately decided whether his account was enough.

At a stop during the journey, Ethan asked to stretch his legs.

We remained where the arrangements allowed, with an adult close by, and walked only far enough to ease the stiffness from sitting.

He carried the puppy tucked under his arm.

“The baby’s going to be small,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Smaller than this?”

He held the toy out, and I smiled despite myself.