My father, clutching gas-station flowers he’d clearly panicked over.

Chelsea, holding a mylar balloon and the early, guarded good news that round five—the one she and Paul had paid for themselves, entirely off the boutique’s calendar—was holding steady at nine weeks.

Renee attended via video from Santa Fe, weeping happily over a hot kiln.

There was no empty chair in the room.

Because we didn’t set one.

My mother learned about the birth the way the town learns everything, and she responded in her native language.