She was perfect.
Seven pounds, three ounces.
Dark hair.
Clare’s nose.
My chin, according to everyone except me.
I had never experienced fear like holding her the first time.
Not panic.
Responsibility.
She was tiny enough that her entire hand closed around my index finger.
I remember thinking:
This person will learn what love means from us.
That terrified me more than childbirth.
Because children don’t learn boundaries from lectures.
They learn from what adults tolerate.
They learn what family means by watching who gets protected.
Three days after we came home, my parents visited.
Mom cried immediately.
Dad stood near the doorway.
He looked at Lily.
Then at Clare.
Then at me.
He seemed nervous.
My father was not a nervous man.
“Can I hold her?”
Clare looked at me.
I looked at her.
She gave one small nod.
Dad washed his hands.
Then I placed Lily in his arms.
