I had bought a fresh, soft blanket from a shop in town while we waited, the first thing I ever purchased for my daughter, and Maya was wrapped in it now, sleeping again, her round face turned toward my chest.

I remember standing in that little shop choosing it, running my hand over the fabric to find the softest one, taking a strange sudden care over a decision that did not matter, because it was the first care I had ever gotten to take for her, and I wanted it to be right.

It was the beginning, I understand now, of a lifetime of such small careful choices, the ten thousand tiny tendernesses that make up the actual daily texture of loving a child.

I did not know that yet, standing in the shop.