When Coty was very small, he had a doll named Baby. Baby was a handmade rag doll, and she used to be mine . . . a gift from my own babysitter, who had made it for me when I was a little girl. When I donated some of my old toys to the daycare that Coty's grandmother Linda ran, Coty fell in love with Baby. Initially this was hard on his father, who was not thrilled to see his son with a doll. But he came to terms with it. At least we thought he had.
Coty slept with Baby, hugged her, dragged her through the dust. Linda was constantly performing reconstructive surgery. All of Baby's clothes vanished, and her hair fell out.
I wonder where Baby is now.