I had carried him.
I had spent seventeen hours in labor.
I had counted every finger and toe.
I had watched his face scrunch when the nurse placed him against my chest.
My memories were not abstract.
They were physical.
The ache in my back.
The hospital bracelet around my wrist.
Tyler crying beside the bed.
My mother bringing blue balloons.
Mason weighed seven pounds, two ounces.
He had been born at 3:14 in the morning.
I remembered everything.
So why was another woman holding a photograph of two newborns with my son’s name written under one of them?
“Then explain the photograph,” I said.
“I’m trying.”
“No. You’re delaying.”
Tyler looked toward Mason.
“Some of this is complicated.”
Mason sat straighter.
“I know what complicated means.”
Tyler’s face crumpled for half a second.
“Mase—”
“Don’t call me that.”
The words were quiet.
They landed harder than shouting would
