They had taken the oxygen mask off that morning; his lungs had decided they were ready.

His small body rose and fell against mine in a steady, miraculous rhythm, and at one point he opened his eyes — dark, unfocused, ancient the way newborn eyes are — and looked up in the direction of my face, and I was undone all over again.

Rosalie sat beside us in a wheelchair, her hand resting over mine where it cupped his back, and the exhaustion in her face had eased into something calm.

“He needs a name,” she said softly.