She must be fragile, just like a snowflake when it lands on your skin. I’m too scared I’ll break her, so I just stare at her for a few seconds before a question pops into my mind. “Did you name her Butterfly?” A burst of laughter greets me. Theo’s mother shakes her head as her fingers glide down my arm—a gentle touch, like Mom used to do. “Her name is June.”
