I was two years old when my parents brought my baby brother, Dominic, home from Lying Inn Hospital in Chicago, ten days after his birth. We lived in a second-floor apartment on Ashland Avenue that had a porch that overlooked a gangway that separated our building from the building next door. I was standing on the porch looking between the slats in the railing when I saw my dad carrying a suitcase and my mom holding a white and blue blanketed bundle. They climbed the back stairs and walked on to the back porch. My mother called out, “Sonny, come see your new brother.”