Children who have been excluded learn to ask whether joy is allowed.
I nodded.
Emma picked up the package with her name. Her fingers moved carefully over the faded ribbon, as though the gift might vanish if she was too eager. Noah opened his more quickly, but with the guarded expression of a boy determined not to show hope in case it embarrassed him.
Inside Emma’s box was a silver locket shaped like a tiny book. When she opened it, there was a photograph no bigger than a postage stamp: Grandma Rose holding baby Emma in a hospital blanket, her wrinkled face radiant.
On the other side was engraved:
For Emma, who arrived like morning.
Emma stared at it.
Her lip trembled.
“Mom,” she whispered. “She knew me.”
I could not answer. I could only nod.
Noah’s gift was a small wooden compass, polished smooth, with his initials carved on the back.
