I get the picture (the one I can’t share on social media) on my cell phone.  It is my daughter in law, holding a little brown boy, his mop of curly black hair is mounded up against her chin.  His head, nestled against her chest.  I can see his face.

The message is short:  “And S- where he’s at the majority of the time.”

I look at Regina’s face.  Her hair is askew, her striped orange shirt rumpled, but her face is one of peace.  She’s doing what she’s wanted to do for a very long time.

I look back at the three-year old’s face, and find myself blinking back the tears.  What S- is doing is listening to her heart, his ear plastered against her chest.

What he doesn’t know, but probably understands, is that he is hearing the strong beat of a Mama’s Sweet Love.