And finally, my daughter was coming home.
Ivy Bennett.
Four pounds, eleven ounces.
Tiny enough that newborn clothes still swallowed her.
Strong enough to breathe without assistance.
Beautiful enough to make everything I had survived feel worth it.
I glanced at her through the rearview mirror.
One miniature fist rested beside her cheek.
Dark curls covered her head.
Her chin had the tiniest cleft in it.
And then there were her eyes.
One was a clear, almost startling blue.
The other was deep brown, so dark it sometimes looked black.
The doctors called it heterochromia.
Two different-colored eyes.
