She holds her angel with newborn care, feeding her spoons of applesauce. It sticks between her teeth and dribbles down her chin. “Look!” she says. “She has two new teeth.” Two perfectly shaped teeth peek over the bottom lip. She knows I know Angel is a doll, but I tell her that’s okay. She needs something to cherish and protect and live for, whether living flesh or plastic doesn’t matter.
Now other residents bring their babies too, Elmo and Tinkerbell and Maggie. Meal time has become a nursery, and my friend has changed her tune. “I know Angel is a doll.” She tucks the baby in a blanket. “I’m not stupid.”
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