I was mourning my baby after childbirth—then my 8-year-old son whispered, “Mom, she’s not gone. nb I saw what Daddy did.”
My son Elias spent seven months waiting for his sister.
He talked to my stomach every night. He had a whole routine — he’d lie on the floor next to the couch with his head on my hip and give her the weather report, the school report, and a summary of whatever he’d been reading about that week, which for most of the spring was volcanoes.
He helped us paint the little room at the end of the hall a pale yellow that took three coats because we cheaped out on the primer. He put more paint on himself than the wall and Grant let him keep the roller as a souvenir.
