So, my birth son. I sent him an anonymous package a while back -- he posted a plea on Facebook, listing his address abroad, begging people to send him stuff. Why not, I figured. He has lots of silly, prank-pulling friends.
And in that package, there was a book. A favorite book. A book that was my bright shiny mind-feeding carrot during those traumatizing first few weeks when Iz wouldn't nurse. A beloved book. A Booker of Bookers book.
A book that is now listed on his Facebook profile as one of his favorite books.
It could be a coincidence. He's a well-read young man, it could have been a favorite already.
But I like to think that, perhaps, it wasn't.