« How do you know? »
He gave me the patient look children reserve for adults who have somehow failed to understand something obvious.
« Because she’d look like a princess. »
Lucy lived next door with her mother, Hannah.
She was almost two, had Down syndrome, and had adored Noah for as long as she was old enough to recognize him coming through the gate.
He brought her dandelions, drew terrible dogs for her, and made ridiculous noises just to hear her laugh.
Hannah had been raising her alone since she was a baby, and most months were tight.
A few weeks before Lucy’s second birthday, Hannah and I were drinking coffee while Lucy stacked plastic cups on the patio.
« I’m not really doing a party this year, » Hannah admitted. « Cake at home. Maybe balloons. We’ve had extra appointments lately. Everything costs something. »
When Noah later asked me why Lucy wasn’t having a « real birthday, » I gave him the simplest version.
