My daughter was tired but happy Friday as she told me over the phone that her newborn daughter had lots of dark hair. In the background, I could hear chirps and gurgles from my granddaughter, 3,000 miles away and only a couple of hours old.

Life was good. What could dim the glow of such joy?

The next morning’s front page reminded me. At about the time I had been talking to Bryn, Carole DeLeon was in a Stevens County courtroom entering two Alford pleas in the death two and a half years earlier, to the day, of her adopted son Tyler.

We’ve paid close attention on this page to Tyler DeLeon’s tragedy. He died on his seventh birthday, malnourished and dehydrated, betrayed by the woman who was supposed to be his caregiver and protector – who was supposed to love him. A badly disorganized and understaffed state child welfare system didn’t exactly rise to the task either.

But on Friday, my mind was in Pennsylvania. My daughter had phoned us Thursday morning to report that Lindsay had shifted into the breech position, and the doctor had scheduled a Caesarean delivery for Friday.

“I don’t want my baby to be born on Friday the 13th,” Bryn said, fighting tears.

There was more to her anxiety than superstition, of course. This would be the first surgery of her life and, besides, it had disrupted her plans. But in that moment, she mostly wanted to spare her child a star-crossed beginning.

Within a couple of hours, she would collect herself and send everyone on her notification list a delightful e-mail conceding her child’s individuality and noting that this probably wouldn’t be the last time she and Jason would have to deal with an outburst of stubborn independence.

She’s more right about that than she knows. She , perfect in every way, was sometimes a challenge, especially when distress struck around 2 a.m. and defied all efforts at calming and cuddling. A father is supposed to be loving and patient, but …

In those days, I was covering courts, and in one unsettling case, an airman beat his 3-year-old daughter to death over a potty-training accident. I was in court when he appeared, smartly attired in dress uniform, to plead guilty and explain himself.

His wife, it seems, was hospitalized with sickle cell anemia and had access to excellent medical care in Spokane as long as he was stationed at Fairchild Air Force Base. But he received orders reassigning him overseas where he would not be able to take a spouse. And with him assigned elsewhere, she would have to give up the base housing they were occupying. She would probably have to stay with family, and comparable health care wouldn’t be available.

The airman requested a compassion-based change of orders but the Air Force denied it. On the day he received the crushing news, distraught with no idea what to do next, the airman picked up his daughter from day care and took her home, where a potty accident ignited the exasperated father’s rage.

Trying as they were, those circumstances did not justify the horror that followed, but they made me reflect on my own good fortune. On those wakeful nights, pacing the floor with a crying infant, I had options. I could wake my wife if necessary. If my coping skills were exhausted and I felt myself about to snap, I could call a neighbor, yes even at 2 or 3 a.m. They would understand.

My daughter and son-in-law will have resources, too. They will support each other and they will love Lindsay Elizabeth Boer with all their hearts. When she probes their limits, they will turn to each other, to friends, neighbors and relatives, and Lindsay will thrive.

Carole DeLeon had it better than that airman. She had options and resources, an education, a good job. She wasn’t saddled with children and uninvited complications. She sought Tyler out, adopted him, brought him into her home and then mistreated him with fatal consequences.

We may never know why, because even as she accepted her legal fate in the courtroom, DeLeon hid behind the Alford plea charade of declining to admit guilt while acknowledging that a jury would probably find her guilty.

Tyler’s birthday was Jan. 13, which was also the day he died. Lindsay’s birthday was July 13, a Friday. But luck has nothing to do with it. It’s a matter of love, and Tyler got short-changed.