He pats the words, looking up at me with bleary eyes, stars twinkling in a sea of green. “Don’t forget this.” I stare down at the words Emmett wrote over three years ago now, the ones that were meant for the baby we were supposed to have. The passage is smudged now, once-perfect handwriting stained with the splatter of teardrops from nights spent curled up right here in this very window, reading this book, wishing on a star for a miracle.
