My mom reached over in the dark and put her hand on my knee.
“Good,” she said. “That’s my girl.”
Evelyn finished feeding and fell asleep against my chest, her mouth open, her red hair tickling my chin.
My mom looked at her for a long time in the faint green glow of those old plastic stars.
“You know,” she said slowly, “your grandpa had hair just like that.”
“Grandpa Joe? He was bald.”
“Not your dad’s dad. Mine. My father. Thomas.”
I frowned. “I never met him.”
“No. He died before you were born. Before your dad and I even married.” She was quiet for a second. “He had hair like a brand new penny. The whole town called him Copper Tom. I was born with it too, you know. Red as a fire truck. It turned brown by the time I was two.”
“You never told me that.”
