But this woman knew him better than anyone in the world.
This is Margaret.
She's Michael's mother.
She's your other grandmother, buddy. She's been looking for us for ten years, because your mom asked her to, so that you'd have all the family you were supposed to have."
My grandson looked at Margaret. And Margaret looked at my grandson — at her son's face, I realized, because she was seeing Michael in him, the boy she'd lost, alive again in a ten-year-old who loved baseball.
"You look just like him," she whispered. "You have his exact face when he was your age. I've been so afraid to meet you, and now I can't imagine why. You're my Michael's son. You're right here. You've been here the whole time."
And my grandson — my sweet, curious boy who'd asked "who was my dad" a thousand times — said the thing that broke both of us open completely.
