That there was enough.

Enough food, enough safety, enough love, enough of everything, so much that he could keep his own toy and his sister could still be fine and both of those things could be true at the same time, forever, in this house.

He did not have to disappear to be good.

He got to exist and be good at once.

That was the whole gift of the thing, wrapped in two-year-old birthday paper, and it was worth every mile I’d driven to hand it to him.

“She can play with it,” he said slowly.