I looked down at the sleeping infant. She was no longer “the girl.” She was my daughter. She was April. She was the final, living love letter from a woman who loved me enough to leave me with the best part of herself.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“Let’s go get some breakfast, April,” I said softly. “I have a lot of stories to tell you about your mom.”
As I walked out of the nursery, the little red St. Christopher medal on her wrist jingled almost imperceptibly. The patron saint of travelers. Marina hadn’t just given her a bracelet; she had given us a map. And for the first time, I knew exactly where I was going.
