Spring came to New York with particular beauty that year.
Elena Rose was six months old, alert and curious and apparently determined to skip crawling entirely in favor of attempting to pull herself upright against whatever furniture came within reach.
"She's going to walk before she crawls," Sofia predicted during a Sunday dinner, watching her daughter grab the coffee table with fierce determination. "Just like you, apparently. Rosa told me you never properly crawled either."
"I was in a hurry," I said. "Some things are genetic."
"Being impatient is genetic?"
"Being determined. Impatience is just determination without adequate outlets."
The table laughed this sprawling, complicated, beautiful table of people who'd built a family from impossible circumstances.
