The little boy won’t stop looking at me. It’s like he can see things in my face no one else can see. He jabbers and bats at my feet as his mother trims my hair, and I want to scoop him up and hold him close. Smell his hair and kiss his hands. Press my face into his neck and cry.

“No hitting, Hunter,” Amber says. “Leave Miss June alone.”

“No, no.” I smile at the boy. “He’s fine.”

It feels good as Amber pulls a comb through my damp hair. We’re sitting in the front yard, letting the hair disappear into the grass. I didn’t realize how long it had gotten, but as it falls away, I feel a lightness I haven’t felt in a long time.

Bea sits at my feet to keep an eye on Hunter. She is radiant in the late-afternoon light. Her cheeks are rosy with life, and the sun shines on her hair like an anointing. I can’t believe she’s going to have a baby, but her soft glow declares the truth as plain as day.

She’s so young. Still has so much to learn. But she’s older than I was when I became a mother.

The little boy—what is his name? It starts with an H. He sits on his bottom and runs his hands over the grass, then grabs a clump and shoves it in his mouth.

“Hunter, no,” Bea says.

That’s right. His name is Hunter.

She sticks a finger in his mouth to clear out the grass. “Icky.”

Tears fill his eyes, and his chin quivers. Oh, Mylanta, it hurts me to look at him. Hurts to see anguish on a little boy’s face after spending forty-five years imagining what pain would look like on the face of my firstborn son. Imagining it and knowing there was nothing I could do to make it go away. I wonder if the pain was ever because of me.

I pat my lap. “Come here, Hunter. Don’t cry.”

Please. Please don’t cry.

He cocks his head and sniffles. Studies me again. Then holds up his chubby arms. My heart catches. Oh, God, thank you. You have given me this moment. I don’t deserve it, but I am grateful.

Bea helps him onto my lap, and his bright red sneakers leave wet marks on my knees. The warmth and weight of him is like an anchor, holding me fast to this life. These people. These fleeting memories. After my first son was born, I didn’t think I’d ever hold another child. But you brought Mitch along for Rand’s sake, didn’t you, Lord? It certainly wasn’t for mine. Holding Mitch sealed up the festering wound in my heart enough for me to go on living. Scarred and disfigured, but living.