I hesitate outside the nursery. Part of me wants to go in and part of me doesn’t. Beth breezes past. “So much for just getting him down,” she mumbles.

I almost roll my eyes at her self-centeredness, but I also understand that she’s just a mom going through her own rough spell too. And she’s indulging me—I have to give her that, at least.

“Hey, little guy. Hey.” She scoops him up and shushes him before he’s even crying. “He likes to be bounced constantly. So unless you want a pierced eardrum…”

She hands him over, and I catch my breath as his weight lands in my arms. A tiny chasm of hope widens inside of me: he’s the same weight as Jackson. I lower a hand over his face. My fingers skitter over his eyes, nose, and mouth as if singing him a lullaby. The hope eviscerates. His nose isn’t the same. Neither is his chin. I search his collarbone: smooth.

He opens his mouth and begins to cry. Now I remember its exact sound, how it scratches and hunts for whoever’s listening. It’s why Beth is always so tired. For the second time, I know for certain: that’s not Jackson’s cry. I hand him back over to Beth, who starts shushing and bouncing him so loudly, I fear she’ll pass out from lack of breath. Miraculously, he settles, and we tiptoe out the door.

“That’s the only thing that puts him back down lately,” she whispers. “I literally shushed so hard the other night, I almost fainted.”

A raging disappointment overtakes my body on the bottom stair.

The three of us stand awkwardly near the front door. “I’m sorry, Beth.”

“Don’t be. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” She touches my arm. “Do you want a cup of tea or something?”

Beth isn’t British, but she’s watched enough BBC to think that a cup of tea really is the answer to all of life’s problems, and that by continuously offering, all of her Midwestern friends will eventually convert. I shake my head and hesitate with my hand on the doorknob. “Wait.” I turn back. “The onesie.”

“The what?”

“The white onesie from Cornerstone. You bought one, right?”

“I did. I picked one up a while ago, but couldn’t believe the price for a plain white onesie. But I loved that it wasn’t just another generic find. I found the artist on Etsy and placed an order in bulk for the summer festival this June.”

I shake my head. “You sold them?”

“I did some letter-printing. But I also sold some plain white ones.”

“How many did you sell?”

“I don’t know. Maybe thirty?”

“Would there be a way to get the receipts for who bought them?” I know I’m plucking at straws, but it’s all I’ve got.