Aimee’s in belted, high-waisted, glen check trousers and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. It looks like vintage Ralph Lauren, and it’s exactly the perfect style for her. With her tawny skin and brunette hair, she looks like old ads from the eighties in the magazines my mom had kept.

I walk up to her and she gives me a broad smile. “Meg. Ronan, say hi to Aunt Meggie.”

A wave of this is so fucking bizarre washes over me, but I breathe through it. I can’t simply sit in amazement at her very existence every time I see her or I’ll freak her out.

“Do you remember her, buddy?”

He shakes his head.

“It’s okay.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “I don’t remember meeting you either.”

He smiles bashfully and turns his head against her chest, away from me.

Ronan has piercing blue eyes and thick, shiny dark hair. He can’t be more than three, and he looks like he’s overdue for a nap.

An unexpected wave of affection for the child comes over me. The way his small body wraps effortlessly around hers, the way his fingers wind through a lock of Aimee’s hair.

I don’t have a lot of kids in my life. I’m an only child without much extended family. I don’t have a lot of adult friends with kids. I’m awkward around them. I say things like, Been to any good movies lately? Which is not even how I talk to adults, so I have no idea what’s up with that.

“Oh, come on,” Aimee says to her son. “Say hi.”

“Hi,” he says quietly.

“Hi, Ronan,” I respond.

“Hi,” he says again.

“That’s good,” Aimee says, then shrugs at me. “We take what we can get. Clare, come here, come say hi.”

Clare comes over. She’s in a floral dress with a fluffy little white cardigan on over top. She gets down into that full kid squat, picking at the little rogue flowers that grow in the grass by our feet.

“Meg. I remember Meg, yes,” she says, a singsong little voice. She does have a little accent. Okay, again, there’s no denying that this is a cute, cute set of children. “Auntie Meggie.”

My heart blooms again. I feel like I could cry. For everything. For Aimee. For this life of hers. For these extensions of Aimee. Not only has she lived, but she’s created more life. More Aimee in the world.

“Hi, Clare. Nice to see you.”

I crouch down to her level.

“This is for you,” she says, handing me a dandelion. “Make a wish.”