“Who are they?”

I reached back and took Owen’s hand and drew him down the steps to stand beside me.

“This is my family, Ruby,” I said.

“These are your nieces and your nephews.”

I watched it land on Owen — watched him understand.

For three years, at bedtime, I had told my kids stories about the little sister with the green eyes and the brother built like a wall and the baby who registered the day she came of age; the three I’d lost, the stories I used to teach five children why you hold onto family with both hands and everything you’ve got.

And now the stories were standing in the driveway in the flesh.