The 2 little boys, Avery and Bennett, sit at the kitchen table and Tom is there and big brother Carter, too, and we are the perfect birthday scene: me carrying the homemade layer cake on a big white plate across the kitchen, everyone singing the "Happy Birthday" song. It's like a picture from a dream I had a long time ago, only it's real.

Of course, the day involved the usual mishaps. I'd briefly wondered if I should make 2 cakes, one for each boy, but quickly dismissed the idea when I realized I only had enough flour for one cake, whole wheat at that. And then there was the birthday candles gone missing, which we solved by lighting long, thin tapers in two silver candlesticks. And the fact that everyone had sniffles and what appeared to be the beginnings of a summer cold.

All of these things, blessedly ordinary.

When it was time to blow out the candles, each boy staring intently at his flame, concentrating on making the perfect wish, I wanted to make one, too, a wish and a prayer--a thank you, sent up to the heavens on the curling smoke of the twins' birthday candles.

Five years ago, it was a sunny June Sunday, an azure-blue day, a lemon-yellow day, only the babies were too small and I was whisked away in the back of an ambulance to a far-off hospital that would become the babies' first home. Days stacked up, dozens of them, and only on occasion, when I was feeling especially brave and hopeful, would I allow myself a dream like the one at my kitchen table. A day of songs and cakes and misplaced birthday candles--ordinary sniffles, the common cold and nothing else. A regular life.

Five days after the ambulance ride and the early delivery, our pediatrician touched her hand to my sleeve and said, in the nicest possible way, "Avery has Down syndrome." I didn't know what those words meant, then, and I repeated them to her, and myself, and anyone who would listen--a question and its own answer: "Avery has Down syndrome? Avery has Down syndrome."

Shortly after, it was Father's Day. Another June Sunday, this one meant to celebrate fatherhood and children and family, only that year, it felt like a cruel joke. The dream of the birthday cake and twin candles was one we only sometimes believed--there was, then, the possibility of an equally real scenario that involved another kind of day, one of grief and loss.

Five years ago and five days. Life and death, love and loss, twinned together. And fathers to celebrate. Tom's parents were helping out and we all--Tom and I, his folks, and our 4-year-old son Carter--made the trip to the NICU to see the babies that Father's Day. After, we ate at a steakhouse where they served us a giant fried onion, open like a flower, blooming in the middle of us.

What I remember most about that time is kindness washing over me like rain; kindness tucking in around me like a blanket. Strangers stopped me to tell me of another family they knew with a baby in the NICU, or with a child with Down syndrome. Books carefully placed in the black nylon pocket of the breast pump, or on top of my pile of paperwork. Words, too, like "I'm proud of you" and "I love you."

And the kindest of all was Tom with his gentle steadiness, his constant presence. Packing up the plastic baggies of milk for the babies; cooking grilled cheese sandwiches for Carter, pickle on the side, slicing the pickle into long spears, so no one would choke. Washing dishes, picking up the house, stuffing dirty clothes into the machine and dumping the powdered soap on top. All this without being asked, or asking anything in return.

We went out to eat that Father's Day five years ago because it seemed like the right thing to do. Tom said he didn't want to remember it as the day we didn't celebrate--the one year in a long string of years remarkable for what didn't happen. So we went--part bravado, part stubbornness, part desperation, part hope--which is the worst combination for digesting a rich meal. I don't think anyone ate very much.

And now we are 5. Many of the details of those early beginnings have already grown dim; what remains is vivid and bright. I see the love of a father for his grown son. I see the love of another father for his small children--a fragile situation, a precarious time, but his love is real and strong and steady. And I see that onion, unlikely flower, blooming anyway--a sign of things to come.