“My bad, I’m so rude,” Angeles says, pulling me into a hug. “How’s my ace?”

“Making it,” I say.

“Dang, either you been lifting or you really trying to crack my ribs right now,” Angeles says, squeezing my bicep. He rubs the top of my head and then takes in the rest of the room. “Autumn! Did you get that article link I emailed you?”

“The one about renewable energy? Umm, yeah. I read it like three times.”

He laughs. “Figured you’d be all over it. How are you?”

“Making it,” she echoes.

Whit tugs at Angeles’s shirt. “Angeles, there’s someone else I want you to meet. This is . . . this is my mama . . . what should I call you?”

“That’s Mama B,” I chime in.

“Has a nice ring to it,” Mama B says. And she turns to Angeles. “Do you want to hold your daughter?”

Angeles grins, his hands shaking. “I’d love to.”

He reaches down, and Mama B holds up Jada. “Say good morning, Daddy. We’re so happy to see you.”

My niece in a room full of people who love her.

Who’ll protect her.

And okay, even when you do your best to keep the people you love safe, things still happen. But you still try.

You still love them with your whole self.

Love them forever.

Even if their forever turns out to be not nearly long enough.

“She has your eyes, Jamal,” Angeles says.

And I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it feels good to hear.

“But she has her mama’s mouth. Look! Already pouty.”

And we all laugh, Whit loudest of all.

“I do not have a pouty mouth. Potty sometimes, but not pouty.”

Angeles nods. “I can already tell she’s a heartbreaker.”

Jada swaying in Angeles’s arms, Jada’s tiny eyes fluttering, exhausted.

We all are.

So, how do you know when it’s time to stop grieving?

When it’s time for our hearts to move on?

I thought it was when the loss stopped hurting so bad.

When breathing stopped being so hard.

But the hurt-intensity isn’t letting up.

My heart isn’t ready to ease up.

I guess it’s like having a physical injury and asking, how does your body know when to stop hurting?

We don’t get to decide.

We wait.

And while we wait, we maximize our time.

I look toward the window, the sun pushing its way through the closed blinds.

A few tears roll down my face, but I laugh them away.

“She hails from a family of heartbreakers,” I say.

We laugh some more.

Because comedy rule number one, jokes are always funnier when they’re true.

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Dear Q,