Lucy lived next door with her mother, Hannah.
She was almost two years old and had Down syndrome. From the moment she became old enough to recognize people, Noah had somehow become one of her favorite humans.
Whenever he walked through Hannah’s gate, Lucy’s entire face changed.
Noah brought her dandelions from our yard.
He drew pictures of dogs that looked more like potatoes with legs.
He made ridiculous animal sounds just to hear her giggle.
And Lucy adored every second of it.
Hannah was raising her alone, and although she rarely complained, I knew money was often tight.
A few weeks before Lucy’s second birthday, Hannah and I were having coffee on her patio while Lucy sat nearby stacking plastic cups.
“I’m keeping her birthday really simple this year,” Hannah told me.
“No party?”
She shook her head.
“Just cake at home. Maybe a few balloons.”
