This weekend Shirley showed me a batch of pictures of Christopher Henry at the hospital. At first glance they’re like any birth photos. A tired mother post-partum. Family and friends gathered around. Everyone taking a turn holding the newborn — aunts and cousins, uncles from Ireland, best friends of the parents … and that classic four-generation shot: great-grandfather, grandfather, father and baby boy.
And on every face, raw despair.
Shirley said I could put up this family picture. Christopher Henry was beautiful: lips like Shirley’s, snout like Scott’s, perfect little hands. No one knows what went wrong. It still seems impossible.
