persistent stirring, longing, that hunger—the insistence no disappointment or sensible reordering of expectations could ever evade. I would have a child of my own. “What’s her name?” I asked, as I took her hand and kissed her little palm. Minh-Linh’s friend said, “Suzie,” nearly a shout. Charlene and I both laughed. And then Charlene said, “She’s yours.”
