My father texted me, ‘To us, you’re already dead,’ and I only replied,

covered my mouth.

“I know.”

That was all we could manage the first time.

The second call lasted forty minutes. The third lasted two hours. By the fourth, she told me that I had been born during a snowstorm, that I hated being swaddled, that I had a tiny angry cry, that she used to press her cheek against mine because she couldn’t believe something so continue reading …