And the paper crane from the bottom of that hospital bag sits on the mantel, under the last photograph of Jack and me.
Grace taught Lily how to fold them.
Our house is full of paper cranes now — on the windowsills, in Lily’s coat pockets, lined up along the baby’s dresser, tucked under his pillow at night.
Every single one of them carries the only sentence my husband ever really had to give.
The one his big sister gave him first, when he was a frightened little boy with no one in the world.
The one he spent eight borrowed weeks, and the very last of his strength, making sure would outlive him.
You are not alone.
He was right.
May you like
In the end, it turned out to be more than enough.
THE END
