Two photographs in through the looking glass.

13 days. That’s how old our son was when I took the picture of him strapped to his father’s chest as we waited for the Metro. In the picture my husband is smiling, but it’s a pained smile. Many months ago I told him how I’ve kept that picture, the one I took on the way home from the pediatrician appointment where our son was diagnosed, as a reminder of our resiliency.

16 days. That’s how old our daughter is when I take the picture of her wrapped against my chest as we wait for the shuttle bus home from the children’s hospital. “Still our very sweet girl.” I text my husband.

“I wouldn’t trade either of them for anything even if I knew,” he responds.