She just looked at me for a long moment, reading my face the way mothers read faces, and then she stepped forward and put her arms around me.

“I’m so sorry,” I said into her shoulder, and my voice came apart on it.

“I thought I left him behind.

I thought I let him down.”

She held my hands when she pulled back, both of them, in both of hers.

“You didn’t leave him behind, Laura,” she said.

“You carried him with you every single day.

I could see it the second I opened the door — you’ve been carrying my boy for a year and a half like it was your fault, and it never was.” Her eyes were wet and steady.