“You look just like him,” she whispered. “You have his exact face when he was your
age. I’ve been so afraid to meet you, and now I can’t imagine why. You’re my Michael’s son. You’re right here. You’ve been here the whole time.”
And my grandson — my sweet, curious boy who’d asked “who was my dad” a thousand times — said the thing that broke both of us open completely.
“So I have two grandmas?”
“You have two grandmas,” I said.
“And my dad loved my mom?”
“More than anything, for one perfect summer.”
“And I came from that?”
“You came from that. You came from love, baby. You always did. I just didn’t know how to tell you until Margaret came.”
He thought about it, the serious way he thinks about everything.
Then he climbed into Margaret’s lap — this stranger who was not a stranger, this grandmother he’d never met — and he hugged her, and she held her dead son’s child for the first time, and
