She had breathed it in off the walls of her own home, and I had let those walls say it, for eight years, one swallowed wound at a time.

Chapter 3 — The Birthmark

That morning his phone had been buzzing without pause.

His sister was sending photos from our house, where the girls had made an enormous welcome banner and three-year-old Anita had ended up with green marker across her forehead.

I laughed despite the ache in my body.

“I can’t wait for them to meet him,” I said.