Lately, you study me. You watch what I do. You know I’m a winter baby, born in the season of a muted world during a month that’s neither here nor there. Unpredictable, too. Feathery flakes, dirty slush, ice cold rain, spring’s blue-sky breakthrough—it’s anyone’s guess.

You’re a summer baby, born in the rolling heat of late August when even the pavement sweats. You look at me. Do you trust me? Do I trust me? This will be our lifelong match. “You can tell me anything, always,” I say. You nod. But you don’t tell me much. That’s ok. That’s not the important part. The important part is that you know you can.

I eat my broccoli. I’m ok with broccoli, but really, I just want you to eat broccoli. I don’t do that thing where I emphatically proclaim, “Gosh, this broccoli tastes good!” I’m quiet about it. Measured. I know you’re watching. I know what I do means more than anything I say. You ate broccoli with dinner last night. Didn’t complain or flinch or say anything at all. Ate it. All of it.

I used to think I had to birth all the babies in the world to make up for the women who couldn’t. For the women like my cousin, who enjoyed a joyful pregnancy for six months before cradling her stillborn baby for hours, until they made her stop. I can’t change that.

But we’re here now. We’ve sat by the fire on biting winter nights. We’ve rescued summertime ice cream cones from melting to the ground. We’ve known all along there are no guarantees, but that we’ve got all the love in the world.