February’s cold crept in through every wall and floorboard. I opted for a late-afternoon shower. I let the water run until mist swirled like the impact zone of a waterfall. I slid open a glass door that prefers to fall off its tracks, stepped over the tub, and into the shower.

I stood there, back to the torrent, head down, arms crossed, letting the water hit the base of my neck. Some pushed over my shoulders, down my chest, and pooled in my arms, where it forfeited its remaining warmth. A spellbound mix of temperatures and pressures.

I stepped out of the shower and into a swarm of brisk air. It bit at me like a small dog desperate for attention, but I was in no rush. Dirty diapers, dinner prep, and something to clean waited for me outside. A chill was nothing.

I turned to the bathroom window. Condensation covered the interior pane except for chaotic streaks across the lower-right-hand corner. Ronan’s handprints. Fingers, hands, small, but so much bigger than they once were.

Every night, he sits down on the vanity so we can brush his teeth. A dollop of watermelon toothpaste on a penguin-shaped toothbrush. Then, one or two complete brushes before he’s clamped down on the neck of the toothbrush and eats the toothpaste. Once there’s no more watermelon flavor to extract, he moves both hands to the toothbrush and yanks it out of his mouth. The streaks across the window were evidence of his nightly ordeal.

The accumulation of previously invisible markings changed how I saw my son. Ronan, at 15 months, is a little boy; no longer a baby.