“Noah,” I coaxed, holding my arms out. “Come on, buddy. You can do it.”
Noah wobbled upright, chubby legs trembling, then took three determined steps toward me and collapsed into my arms with a delighted squeal.
I laughed so hard I cried. Julian rushed in from the office, half-panicked.
“What happened?” he demanded, then saw Noah grinning and me sobbing on the rug.
“He walked,” I choked out.
Julian dropped to his knees and pulled both of us into a hug, laughing into Noah’s hair.
In that moment, I thought about my parents—not in longing, not in anger, but like a distant weather system you remember exists somewhere.
Because having a child does something strange: it makes you understand, with brutal clarity, what you deserved when you were small.
Noah didn’t have to earn my love. He didn’t have to provide anything. He didn’t have to sacrifice his future to keep the family stable.
He was loved because he existed.
That was it.