The child stood before us and read his poem, which hung on a long sheet of paper draped over his head.

You cannot bear children. It read.

My father stood up to read his poem next. He belted it out because the previous child had been so quiet. Whispered, so we had to strain to hear. That’s when I stood and held up a picture of a boy with smooth, sweet features. There was text around the picture, of which I highlighted the word, OXFORD.

I was going to name him that.
He was not mine.