But now his sister was gone and the funeral was over, and it was time for Wunder to go back to school.

He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want to listen to everyone say how sorry they were. He didn’t want to pretend that he was fine, just fine.

But he didn’t want to stay home.

His father left for work very early. The sound of the front door closing woke Wunder out of an unsettled half sleep.

His mother did not have to be back to work for four more weeks. She had been on maternity leave.

Now she was on bereavement leave.

Wunder knew that she wouldn’t leave her room, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t have to be in the same room for him to feel her sadness. It seeped under closed doors, spread across floors, filled up every vacant space. Her sadness was a thing Wunder felt he could drown in.

It seemed impossible that a few weeks ago, she had been so happy, happier than he had ever seen her. A few weeks ago, she had looked, all the time, the way she did when she told the story of Wunder’s birth.

Wunder had heard that story more times than he could count. It was in The Miraculous, of course. It was in there several times, with more details as he grew older. His mother had written a version over the summer, while she was pregnant. It went like this:

Miraculous Entry #1279

You know, Wunder, this is my favorite story. The story of you.

It starts with me and your father. We were high school sweethearts, and we got married right after graduation. This, as you know, is not something I recommend, Wunder, although it’s not something that I regret.

After a few years, we wanted to have a baby, even though we were babies ourselves. Again, not something I recommend, but we felt—your dad and I—that we had so much love, too much love for just the two of us.

But year after year after year, there was no baby. We tried everything we could afford. We went to so many doctors. Your father prayed and lit a million candles at St. Gerard’s. I drank special teas and went on fertility retreats and tried my best not to worry so much. But nothing worked.

Until, after ten years—unexplainably, inexplicably—we found out that you were on the way.

I won’t lie to you, Wunder; it was a hard pregnancy. I was sick the whole time, and there were a lot of concerns about your health.

But then you were born—a fuzzy-headed, blue-eyed, seven-pound pooping machine, as Dad always says—and you were perfect. You were absolutely perfect, and we were so in love with you.

And you know your father has always had so much faith, always believed so easily and so strongly. And you know that before you were born, I never really believed in much of anything.

But when I met you, I couldn’t deny that you were a miracle.

You were our Wunder.