You were born on a Tuesday. Screaming at the top of your tiny lungs, you introduced yourself to the world. Your momma cried tears of joy as the nurse passed you to her. You were more than she had dared to dream. You curled your tiny hand around her finger and nuzzled into her chest, searching for your first meal. Only when you felt the warm milk against the back of your throat did you fall quiet.

Your momma tried to call me the day you were born. She left a message on my machine and told me I had a son. I didn’t believe her. I played that message once before erasing it. For that, my beautiful boy, and for all which was to come, I ask your forgiveness.