In the new little face, she searches for her husband’s nose, the prominence of his chin. But the baby is just a baby, and not bothered with reviving what’s been lost over years of disdainful looks, and secrets kept, and a final act of desperation in the dark after too much to drink. Just a baby, formed along a tiny spine, who clenches and unclenches fresh fingers and toes, opens his mouth, red and wet and hungry, not to cry, as she assumed he would, but to murmur something she’s never heard before, something altogether new.