I’m twenty-two. We went to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal, then I took you to a movie—Bambi, out for a special showing. I hope you remember seeing it. It’s a good movie. One I’ve always liked, even if the part about the mother is sad. When we got home, I found all my china plates smashed to bits, and I know Victor, your father, has been here, and that he will be back. I don’t know what will happen, but I want you to have this, so you know how much I love you, how special you are. Of all the things that have happened to me, you’re the best. I remember the night you were born. It was already midnight. You just barely made it on the tenth, eight minutes before the day changed. There had been so much noise and activity, but then everyone left. All the nurses and doctors and Victor and his family. And it was just you and I. They wanted to give you a bottle because you were so big they said my milk wouldn’t be enough, but one kind nurse left you with me and said it wouldn’t hurt anything if I nursed you, that if you were hungry later, they could always give you a bottle then.
