The doctor placed my newborn beneath the delivery light, and my mother-in-law screamed that someone had wrapped my baby in plastic.

Four months later.

The summer sun beamed down on the backyard of my Evanston cottage.

It was Maya’s first birthday.

The lawn was decorated with bright pastel balloons, giant wooden animal cutouts, and a massive water-sprinkler play pad where a dozen children from our foundation playgroup were running around, laughing and splashing in the warm water.

A huge banner stretched across the wooden porch: HAPPY 1ST BIRTHDAY, MAYA!

I stood near the picnic tables, wearing a sun dress, pouring cold lemonade for my parents and Abigail.

Dr. Vale—who had become a close family friend over the past year—was helping Elena set up a three-tiered strawberry and cream cake on the center table.

"Look who's marching!" my mother cheered from the lawn.

I turned around.

Maya—wearing a bright pink swimsuit and a sun hat—was taking her very first independent steps across the soft green grass. She wobbled slightly, her tiny arms outstretched for balance, her dark eyes sparkling with determination.

"Come on, sweetie!" I called out, dropping to my knees on the grass, holding my arms wide. "You can do it!"

Maya took three, four, five big steps, her little feet gripping the grass, laughing hysterically as she navigated the terrain. She didn't fall. She marched right into my open arms, throwing her little body against my chest.

I lifted her high into the air, spinning her around under the bright blue summer sky, while everyone on the lawn cheered and clapped.

"Happy birthday, my sweet girl," I whispered, pressing my face against her warm, soft neck, smelling the sweet scent of oat lotion, sunshine, and pure joy.

Abigail walked over, handing Maya a small wooden toy boat painted in bright golden colors.