After my daughter-in-law gave birth, every request to see my grandson ended the same way. He was still sensitive. Maybe next week. Two months of that, and the clothes I had folded were still in a bag by my door. I drove over without calling. If he was truly too fragile for a visit, I would leave the bag and go.
She opened the door with the baby on her hip. My heart dropped, then kept dropping. He was not fragile. He was round, pink, and laughing at a spoon someone was waving behind her. The living room was full. My son’s cousins. Her mother. A half-eaten cake on the table and a banner that said two months. They had been having people over. They had simply not been having me.
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