I stare at the screen, a hand to my cheek, breathing in this knowledge that I have a daughter. It drifts inside me like a feather, tickles my brain, until it lands in a pile of similar feathers, and I am left feeling that this information is not new, even if my heart nearly explodes at the idea of it.

But that’s okay. I could read this kind of news for the first time every single day of my life.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up, nearly falling out of my chair at the man who smiles down at me. Tate. His black hair is short, with fine bits of gray winding around his temples, and his eyes are that same deep green that makes me weak in the knees.

“G . . . g-ood morning, beautiful,” he says and sets a steaming cup of coffee on the tiled coaster on my desk.

“Hi, Tate,” I say. A blush heats the tips of my ears. I nervously touch my hair. Have I showered today? I look down to find I’m still wearing pajamas, wish I’d thought to put something nice on, and squirm in my seat, embarrassed by a sudden rush of teenage-like hormones.

“Relax,” he says, and leans down, kisses me on the lips, and while it feels new and exhilarating, he kisses me with a comfortableness that must mean he does this quite often. He breaks away but keeps his face close to mine. He smells like pine trees and coffee beans. “We got married this past winter. It was a perfect Alaskan day, gray and foggy, with so much snow we couldn’t make it to the reception, so we held it here. You were stunning and our daughter spilled all the flower petals before she made it down the aisle. It was perfect.” He hands me a tablet and it’s scrolling through pictures that I can guess are from our wedding. Me in a long white dress standing next to a dark-haired girl who looks like a combination of my mother and Tate. He kisses me once more before going into the kitchen, and I hear the sizzle of eggs frying, smell bacon in the air. I press a hand to my cheek, feel my stomach doing cartwheels. I’m married to Tate.

More pictures slide by, and I sip my coffee and watch. There are pictures of me with Mom on a boat with a caption that reads, Claire and Alice on a fishing expedition. I smile. She’s sober now. Another of me and Tate and Maree standing at the top of Portage Pass Trail. The pictures scroll on and I watch, enjoying every one that shows a full life. Even if I can’t recall the details, I think I feel them in the warmth that radiates through my body.