1954

Seventeen-year-old Russell held his newborn daughter. The swaddled babe was quiet. She was always quiet. Sitting on the couch in his parents' living room, his mother was already spoiling his daughter too much.

Russell looked at his father, seeing the anger in the old man’s eyes as he glared at him. He couldn’t care less about his father’s opinion on the baby. “Don’t start,” he warned his father. They always fought, whether verbally or physically.

Holding the small palms of his newborn daughter, Russell wasn’t thrilled about having a baby at seventeen, but he did enjoy having a little version of his girlfriend. It felt strange to hold such a fragile life in his hands. He had most of it figured out—changing diapers, feeding, and bathing.

He adjusted the blanket over you, watching you sleep on the couch, keeping you warm and protected from the cold February air. It was still chilly. He didn’t want you to get sick while recovering from birth.

They were financially well off. His father just had a stick up his rear end. It didn’t matter to Russell. He would leave as soon as he turned eighteen—join the military, and live his life with his tiny family. He didn’t need his dad. His mother, though, was a sweetheart, always wanting to see her little granddaughter.