My son’s wife had always refused to let anyone hold their baby—until the day of my birthday party.

that no one would hold her baby.

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

Willow’s hand rested against my palm, soft and warm, but it wasn’t what I expected. Next to her little fingers, there was another, smaller than the others, slightly curled, as if it belonged there because, in a way, it did.

Six fingers.

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