Your loved ones came together to welcome the newest addition.
My darling Wren — your mother was the bravest small thing I ever held, and somehow you will be braver still. I am saving you the window seat at the back of the house, the one with all the morning light. Come find me there.
I have known your mother since we were both seven and convinced we could live in a tree. Wren — I hope you also believe impossible things, and I hope you also have a best friend who lets you.
Sweet Wren, I have already chosen the rocking chair I'll keep by my kitchen window for you. Bring your loudest stories. Grandpa Pete is pre-emptively teaching the dog to bow.
For the record — Wren is a perfect name. But if she ever wants a spare, I have always loved Juniper, Lark, or Beatrix. (Yes, after the Potter. I am not subtle.) Welcome, little one.
May you inherit your father's stubborn kindness and your mother's stubborn everything else. May the world be slow enough to deserve you.
Wren, I am your father's oldest friend, which means I will tell you embarrassing stories at every birthday. It is the contract. In return I promise to teach you how to skip a stone exactly seven times.
Margaux — I have spent my whole career writing about other people's stories. I cannot wait to read yours and James's, with Wren as the new center of every page. She is loved already, in every language we know.
A wish: that you always know which house on the street is yours by the smell of bread. A second wish: that your mother lets me babysit. Selfish, I know.
Welcome to a family of overthinkers and big dreamers. We have been waiting for you in a way that almost feels rude — like keeping the porch light on long after dark. The light is still on. Come home.
Dear Wren — I am four and I am going to be your cousin. I have picked out a stuffed fox for you. His name is Charles. He is yours now. Please be careful with him.
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