The doctors gave me strict instructions on how to keep my son safe from respiratory syncytial virus, a mild cold for adults that’s dangerous for preemies: No going out in public. Anyone who visits has to be sickness-free and should change their top before holding him. No kids visiting at all, and a hand-washing regimen that seemed pathological.

That winter, nearly 19 feet of snow fell. Friends texted every day to ask what I needed, then came over from the grocery store, paper bags of vegetables and chocolate cake in hand. Carol brought me lattes, told me about her elementary school students and gave my son jack-o-lantern-footed pajamas.

Joy stopped by every few days with leftovers. She held my son and cooed over him. Her 7-year-old daughter, Claire, desperately wanted to meet him, so we did as one of the doctors suggested: I held him up to the window while she pressed her face against it from outside, hood up over her head. “Oh, he’s so cute! Hi, baby!” She frosted up the glass with her breath.

When I was in Texas, Norma made a Facebook group with a spreadsheet of tasks that she delegated to friends. Elizabeth cared for my pets and helped prepare my home for our return . A stranger shopped for him at thrift stores and left me bags of clothes that would fit him all year long.

“Thank you,” I said, over and over. “I’m sorry for asking.” My friends told me to stop; they were doing this because they wanted to; I owed them nothing.

Every now and then, one of them would ask about my parents. A few knew the whole story, but I hadn’t told everyone.

One morning, I woke up dizzy and spent 20 minutes throwing up in the bathroom. I lay down on the linoleum floor while my son wiggled in his bouncy seat. I stared at his toes in tiny striped socks.