Three months later, Daniel met her for the first time.
He came on a Saturday, nervous in the way that big people get nervous — too still, too careful with his hands.
Penelope opened the door and there was a moment, just a breath of a moment, where the two of them looked at each other across the threshold.
“Thank you for coming,” Penelope said.
“Thank you for asking me,” Daniel said.
She stepped back and let him in.
I was already there, on the sofa, the baby asleep against my chest the way she sometimes fell asleep when I visited — heavy and trusting, one fist curled near her chin.
Daniel sat beside me.
He looked at her for a long time without speaking.
Then he said, very quietly: “She has Mom’s nose.”
I looked.
He was right.
I hadn’t seen it before, but now that he said it, I couldn’t unsee it.
