I once asked Oldest what she remembered about the day Lucy was born. She was nine then.
She told me about hitting wiffle balls in the backyard that morning, and she took me through the places that they all went while killing time before getting to the hospital: An antique store in my father’s home town that used to be a movie theatre. His favorite barbeque place for lunch; some sightseeing in the country, I think.
Then she told me about being in the waiting room with everyone and watching my mother peering through the windows of the doorway to the women’s wing, and everyone laughing about that. Occasionally, she would slip past and sneak down the hall for an even closer look. It’s possible my mother would have made a formidable investigative reporter.
Eventually word came that Lucy had been born and there was more smiling, more nervous…
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