Seven Months Later My daughter is born on a Tuesday. She arrives in the early hours—that time before dawn when the sky is still dark blue before dawn. Her name is Mila. And, next to her mother and brother, she is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She announces herself with considerable volume, which tells me everything I need to know about what the next several years will be like, and I look at her—red-faced and furious and entirely herself—and understand something I've understood only twice before:There are people you would do anything for. She is another one.Skye holds her skin to skin and nurses her before handing her off and drifting to sleep. She's earned it. She's earned everything, this woman—every good thing that comes to her for the rest of her life she has earned, and I intend to spend considerable effort making sure it comes to her.I sit beside her, holding Mila, who has been fed and is now conducting an assessment of her new environment with unfocused eyes that
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