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Our babies were born six weeks apart.
Nora’s daughter came first. It was a girl she named Rose.
And then ours arrived, a boy we named after nobody in particular because we wanted him to be entirely his own person.
On the afternoon we brought him home, Nora was already at the house when we arrived. She had let herself in with her spare key, filled the refrigerator, and was sitting in the armchair by the window with Rose asleep against her chest, looking more at peace than I had seen her look in years.
She glanced up when we came through the door and smiled at the bundle in my arms with the recognition of someone who had done this before and knew exactly what it meant.
“Welcome home,” she said softly.
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