“Her medical team says her condition is stable, and she wants us to bring Noah and Lily to her library for tea on Sunday.”

“Tell her we’ll be there right at noon,” I said.

By five o’clock, the afternoon light had shifted into soft lavender shadows across the tree-lined Brooklyn street outside.

The two maple cribs stood side by side against the cream-painted wall of the quiet nursery.

Late winter snow on the dark slate roof across the avenue was melting in the mild March air, dripping steadily onto the wide stone windowsill.

I stood by the open window, listening to the soft, steady sound of spring rain on the sidewalk below.