Beverly simply took her.
The nurse had just placed Wren on my chest. She was tiny, furious, slippery, and perfect, and I was crying so hard I could barely see her.
Roland stood beside the bed with his phone in his hand, taking pictures and sending messages.
What I didn’t know was that at 4:30, he had texted his mother to tell her we were close.
I also didn’t know she had already been sitting in the waiting room since three.
The door opened.
Beverly Tran walked in.
Sixty-two years old.
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