My Husband Went Still Over Our Newborn and Asked, “Why Didn’t You Tell Me?” — Then His Mother Walked In
The eyes are only the eyes.
What fills them, what she looks out at the world with them and becomes, will be entirely our doing, and hers, and will have nothing to do with a Chicago syndicate or a leather-bound folder or a woman she will never meet.
That is the thing Wendy got wrong, the thing that arrogant, powerful people who believe in blood always get wrong: that we are not the prisoners of where we came from.
We are the authors of where we go.
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