She is overwhelmed (which she expected) when they put his small, heavy head on her chest. His breathing is loud, but she focuses on the feeling in her belly, the empty space where he used to reside, all six pounds and twenty inches of him. He sighs, and his arm moves, or maybe she imagines it.
Someone takes a photograph, posts it to social media.
Her first child would be 18 now. Her second closer to 12. The third she bled out at 2 months. She ignores the usual guilt that comes when thinking on them, focuses on the fourth. Here he is, breathing, living and she could not love him more.
Yes, this will trap her, make her stay somewhere longer than a year or two, but she wants that consistency, craves the responsibility. Her mother is near, which matters more than she thought. Her sister stands in the corner, smiling, and at last, they finally understand each other. The tears come easily and neither are ashamed.
Out in the night the photo makes the rounds, each friend, each family member sharing in her joy. Almost a perfect moment.