What would you say if you saw a chubby, grinning little boy in a woman's arms, straining to sink his fingers into her hair and babbling away?
Now, what would you say if the last time you saw that baby he was emaciated and listless? 7 weeks old and four ounces under his birth weight? Broken bones, but no energy to protest the pain wracking his little being?
Would you cry?
The CPS worker who brought Manolin into care did.
She saw him--all 16 lbs. and 10 oz. of his not-quite 7 month-old self--for the first time again today. She stroked his cheek. Talked to him. Had to hold him in her arms to know for sure it was real.
"This one," she said, handing him back to me, "I never thought would make it. And not like this, for sure. I just knew in my heart when I brought him in that he was broken for good. But look at him."
Healthy. Happy. Normal.
"God is good," I smiled, shifting him on my hip so that his constantly moving fingers couldn't find my glasses.
She beamed, and then winked.
"All the time," she answered.