It’s like our entire apartment had been holding its breath, but now that Babygirl’s returned, even the breeze coming in through the window heaves a sigh of relief. ’Buela and I sit on the couch with Babygirl between us listening to her baby-sing about Moana, PAW Patrol, and cookies. Our dinner is forgotten; Bobby Flay is put on mute. For the rest of the night Babygirl is front and center, the candlelight we read the world by.
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