By Radhika R. Yeddanapudi I received a birthday card from my father yesterday. In his familiar, right-leaning hand, he had written, "I believe this is your best birthday yet.” I imagined this card landing in the future in a stranger's hand, perhaps in an old curiosity shop. What will the stranger make of my father's allusion? A job, a promotion, an achievement of some sort? I wanted to ask my father to what he referred but decided against it. He may not have wanted to, or even been able to, articulate exactly why the birth of my son represented the best that my life could offer, only that he felt it. I remained silent out of a mixed sense of inadequacy, propriety and maternal pride: a new living being can inspire and effect change in a way that no achievement can. My son Himadri was not real to me until we brought him home from the hospital. The involuntary nature of pregnancy, labor and childbirth left me feeling like there was nothing I could control, and hence the child of this natural set of events seemed quite unreal.