A good home must be made, not bought.
I compromised my ability to tell my story, at the most basic level.
You lay your hand against his skin and just rib his back. Blow into his ear. Press that baby up against your own skin and walk outside with him, where the night air will sourround him, and moonlight fall on his face. Whistle, maybe. Dance. Hum. Pray. (how to calm a crying baby)
She felt everything too deeply, it was like the world was too much for her.
I continued to protect him with my silence.
The silence was part of the story I wanted to tell.