The baby let the pacifier fall.

I caught it against my palm.

The photograph shook in my other hand.

Ethan took the glossy photograph from my hands and placed it gently on top of the ruined luggage.

“She was born in November,” he said.

I touched the bare skin on my wrist where my grandmother’s silver watch used to sit.

The baby made a soft snuffling sound from the sofa cushions, her tiny fists clenching the fabric of her blanket.

“We need to get her some formula,” Ethan said.