Michael is a loud, active sleeper. As are all of my children. They breathe as if they’re blowing out dozens of birthday candles with every exhale—heavy, forceful whooohs. They flop like fish out of water. They wake up with wild hair. Normally, when Michael would let out a harumph and roll over, pulling me backward into a spooning position, I’d elbow him back to his side of the bed. Now I held his forearm across my chest and leaned back into his body, pressing every part of myself against him that I could, the backs of my knees cradling the fronts of his, my feet twisted around his toes. I
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