“Rosie, I—” “Dada.” My heart stops, and I dart a look at Rosie. “Did he say—” Her smile is so bright it hurts to look at. “He did.” Ignoring the man in front of us, I scoop my son into my arms. “Say it again,” I beg. I’m aware that begging a baby to say a word again is futile, but I can’t help it. Sammy smacks his open hand against my cheek. “Da.” Another smack. “Da.” Fuck. I’m going to cry.
