“Brandon,” I whispered, hardly able to get the word out.

“Brandon could be your son.

Your lost son.” The room seemed to go very still around us.

Raymond closed his eyes, and I watched the weight of it wash over his face, decades of grief and searching and giving up, all of it turning suddenly on the small sleeping body in his arms.

Theodore stirred, and his tiny hand came up and closed around one of Raymond’s fingers, gripping it in his sleep the way babies do.

“And this little one,” Raymond said, his voice breaking softly, “this little boy in my arms, could be my grandson.