He carried a small photograph of himself and Wyatt at age six, standing in front of a pumpkin patch.

They were laughing, each missing a front tooth.

“I wanted to see where it started,” he explained.

“But I think what I really wanted was to come here without being scared.”

We walked through the public garden by the entrance.

A fountain splashed quietly near a bench.

I told him about the morning the boys were born: the thunderstorm, the nurse who hummed to distract me, the way Wyatt arrived protesting and the second baby followed only minutes later.

“Did you hold me?” he asked.