For months, he had begged for a baby sister.
He picked out little yellow socks at Target and held them up to me like they were treasure. He named my stomach “Baby Bean” before we knew the gender. When the ultrasound tech told us it was a girl, he clapped so hard people in the hallway turned to look.
“My sister,” he kept saying. “My sister is in there.”
He told his kindergarten teacher he was going to be “the best big brother in the whole state.” He said state because apparently the world felt too small.
Even at the hospital, he was obsessed with her. He stood on a chair beside my bed, one hand resting on the rail, staring down at her pink face like she was the most important person he’d ever seen.
“She’s tiny,” he whispered.
My husband, Daniel, laughed. “Most newborns are.”
Max frowned at him. “No, Dad. I mean tiny tiny. Like if I sneeze wrong, she’ll fly away.”
