Alice's first word was "Luna."
Not mama or dada, but Luna. Clear as day, reaching her pudgy six-month-old hands toward my daughter who was practicing shields in the Pack House common room.
Sarah's face crumpled. "Of course it is. Of course, her first word is Luna."
Marc pulled his mate close, laughing even as Sarah cried. "She sees Luna every day. It makes sense."
Luna looked stricken. "I'm so sorry, Sarah. I didn't mean to steal her first word. That should have been yours."
"Come here," Sarah said, pulling Luna into a hug with her free arm, and Alice squished between them. The baby grabbed Luna's hair, babbling "Luna, Luna, Luna" like she'd discovered the most important sound in the world.
I watched from the kitchen doorway, something tight in my chest. Luna spent hours with Alice.
