“Oh, Rorie.” I grasp her sweet face; it’s blurred behind my tears. “You are every bit as lovable as Beau.” I think, suddenly, of Rorie as a toddler, fierce and bright and funny, and as a little schoolchild, infinitely curious and infinitely energetic. Observing her as she observed the world turned everything new and wondrous for me too; she’s always had the power to transform the people around her, to tug them into her own universe, where everything burns hotter and brighter. I love her so much I cannot put it into words.

But I try. I murmur to her all the things I should have said long ago. I’m not good at this, conveying emotion, acknowledging feelings, but I talk to her about her early childhood and about losing her father and my decision to study infectious diseases after that. If it hadn’t been for her, I tell her, I could not have gotten through it, that dark and awful period when Daniel died. I’ve never spoken with her about the pain of losing Daniel, and she listens silently, occasionally reaching up to swipe away my tears. She doesn’t ask me any questions, and I think it will still be a long time before we smooth out this new phase in our lives, but the difference I feel in myself from a few moments ago is massive, startling; I finally understand why people use the analogy of a weight being lifted when they’ve confessed to someone else a thought they’ve long kept to themselves.

When I finish, we sit, locked together, and ponder our separate transgressions. She’s so heavy and solid in my lap that my legs have gone numb; I can feel her heartbeat through my own chest wall, thumping along steadily and reassuringly. It’s no wonder babies are soothed by rhythmic shushing; their mother’s heartbeat is the first sound they ever hear and it’s all-encompassing, dominating their world until they are born and it vanishes. Like a heartbeat, this comfort with Rorie won’t last—tomorrow she’ll freeze me out or I’ll yell at her or one or both of us will piss off the other, but for now I luxuriate in the warmth of her skin against mine and this strange new peace I’m finding with my almost-adult child.

“Whew,” I say. “I wasn’t expecting that. I thought you were going to tell me about some boy drama.”

She gives me an arch look. “I’m not the one with boy drama.”

“Yes, well.” I wave a hand around, attempting nonchalance, and then smile in spite of myself. “I think all is . . . going pretty well in that department.”

Rorie grins back, delighted. “Is he coming back to help with the move?”