His eyelashes rested on his cheeks.

A paper star had fallen onto the rug beside the crib, and his tiny sock lay near the door.

The room was messy and ordinary and entirely ours.

I remembered the woman I had been in the grocery aisle, counting pennies and trying not to cry while two wealthy people made a performance of her fear.

I wished I could step back into that moment and tell her she was about to discover her father’s courage, her mother’s flaws, and the difficult difference between being protected and being controlled.

I wished I could tell her the road ahead would include more paperwork than miracles and more tears than dramatic victories.