“Damaged goods,” Mom said loudly at my sister’s baby shower. “Too broken to ever be a mother.” Thirty pairs of eyes turned toward me, full of pity. I simply smiled and glanced at my watch.

Three dots appeared.

Then:

I’d like to come visit. Just me. No Mom. I want to know them. And you.

I looked at Alexander.

He was now trying to wipe syrup off Sam’s face without waking him, a procedure more delicate than some surgeries.

“Chloe wants to visit,” I said.

He looked up.

“Do you want that?”

“I think so.”

“Then yes.”

I typed:

Okay. Come Saturday. But leave the judgment at the door.

Her answer came immediately.

I’ll leave Mom at the door too.

That Saturday, Chloe arrived wearing jeans, sneakers, and no makeup except mascara. She brought muffins from a bakery and a stuffed giraffe larger than Noah. She stood in the foyer of our brownstone and looked overwhelmed before anyone even touched her.