There were moments Sidonie reached for him and saw him stiffen, and had to make herself go slow, had to swallow the desperate hunger of six years and give him the one thing he actually needed, which was time and no pressure.

She had dreamed of this reunion in the dark for six years, and she had to spend the first weeks of it holding her own longing at arm’s length so as not to frighten the very child she’d survived for.

It was its own kind of heroism, quieter than the wire and the sting — the daily discipline of loving a wary child patiently enough to let him come to her in his own time.

The psychologists had told her it would be like this.

Knowing did not make it easy.

What made it bearable was that every week was, by a little, better than the one before.