The street was quiet.
Four years earlier, I had looked down that same street and believed an open door had destroyed my family.
I did not know another family was waiting somewhere ahead.
I did not know that finding Nacho would not return my life to the way it had been.
It would make my life larger.
I once thought the miracle was hearing a broken little animal answer to his name in a strange parking lot.
It was a miracle.
But it was not the only one.
The second miracle was learning that he could answer to another name without loving me less.
The third was opening my home to people I had first seen as a threat.
And the hardest miracle was understanding that love is not proven by how tightly we hold what is ours.
Sometimes it is proven by how much room we make for everyone who helped carry it home.
