I never had children of my own.
For years, I told people that was by choice. It was easier than explaining the miscarriages, the doctor visits, and the marriage that collapsed under the weight of everything we could not fix.
By 39, I lived alone in a small yellow house with blue shutters, a garden I cared too much about, and a kitchen table that almost never had anyone sitting across from me.
Then Melissa moved in next door.
She was 28, recently divorced, and raising her five-year-old daughter alone.
The first time I met Sophie, she was sitting in the grass between our houses, trying to put a ladybug into an empty matchbox.
« That needs air holes, » I told her.
She looked up at me with huge brown eyes.
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