“Don’t you listen to him, mama,” she whispered, rubbing my shoulder.

“You breathe.

You take care of this sweet boy.” I held him close and pressed my face into his soft blanket.

And underneath the grief and the exhaustion, something else caught and began, very quietly, to burn.

Nicolas had wanted a son so badly it had eaten his good sense.

And now that he had one, the same rot was rising up in him, ready to take our whole family down with it.