He’s watching her, a mix on his face of disenchantment and hope that sort of breaks her heart, like he’s expecting her disappointment but holding out for the possibility that she’ll come at him, instead, with whatever it is he wants, rescue, or joy, full-throated parental acceptance. There has always been a schism, for her, between what she wants to do as a mother and what she actually does; she has never quite trusted her instincts, never quite been able to venture into territory that feels too soft or tender.
