My other pregnancies had all failed—all except for my perfect Olive. She was our survivor. The only one strong enough to survive my own body.

     

The truth is I was not mourning just you. I was mourning the version of myself that still trusted fire.

     

The house where I was sexually assaulted just was just listed for sale.

     

She felt an urge to shed like a snake, to wriggle out of life and be new again — to walk through another door, to discover again, a new version of herself.

     

I spent hours reviewing emails from new genealogy friends, making entries in my research log, and mapping out family relationships.