Deserves a space where she doesn’t have to second-guess everything, where she can bake without fear, eat without thinking, and live without worrying she’s about to get sick.
Once everything’s organized, I open the back door for some air and sit at the table, coffee in hand, scrolling through articles on wheat sensitivity. One link leads to another, and pretty soon I’m reading about airborne gluten exposure during harvest. Some people get sick from walking through fields during peak bloom. Others react just from being downwind and some are just fine.
Shit.
My gut twists. Wheat won’t be harvested for months—not till August, maybe late July if it’s an early year, and I’ll be out there helping when it’s time. Hell, I’ll be out there before that. When the heads start to ripen—when the pollen lifts off in the heat.
I glance toward the open window, the fields stretching green and endless in the distance.
Is that gonna be safe for her? Is this place gonna make her sick?
I don’t know. Not yet. But I’ll find out. And if it’s not—I’ll figure it out. Do whatever it takes to make her okay. Because stupid as it may be, as fast it feels, I want Georgia here. And I’ll move fucking mountains to make sure she stays.
All that done, I stand, stretch out my legs, and make my way toward Aurora’s room.
The door creaks a little as I open it—still new, freshly painted, and smelling faintly of lemon-scented cleaner and baby powder. Light spills in from the hallway, casting soft shadows over the pale yellow walls and the rainbow mural on the far one. My chest tightens instantly.
Still can’t believe this was all Georgia.
Sure, I know my family had a hand in stocking the room with gear.
Gemma bragged about the play mat and fully stocked toy box she picked. Colby and Clementine were over Saturday morning, organizing baby books on the cloud shelves I hung.
And my mom… practically had to drag her out of her when I left for the bar with the guys.
But the soft things? The details? The night-lights in every outlet, the cozy curtains, the matching bee-patterned sheets and mobile, the way everything smells clean and warm—like lavender and love?
That’s all her.
And she didn’t do it for credit. She didn’t even tell me until I walked in and saw it.
She did it for Aurora.
Forme.
I move slowly, reverently, like I’m in a church. My fingers ghost over the bee-print crib sheets, then up to the soft hanging mobile. Bees with little smiling faces spin lazily in the breezefrom the cracked window. My throat closes around the sudden pressure that builds behind my ribs.
This room is perfect.
It’s ready for Aurora
And, God, I think I am, too.
I’ve missed Aurora for the last three weeks—a deep ache in my chest that shouldn’t be possible, but it’s there.
Thought about her every damn day, worried and stressed over how she’s doing with the foster family. Blew up Ethel’s phone more times than I can count, just to check on her. All she could say was that Aurora’s teething up a storm, and to be prepared.
My eyes land on the car seat in the corner. Still in the box. The sight sobers me, reminds me that no matter how perfect this room is, the second I strap that seat into my truck… everything changes.
Her life’s about to be in my calloused hands.
I pull out my phone.
First instinct is to Google a video tutorial, make sure I don’t fuck it up, but instead, my thumb hovers over the number I know by heart. One I’ve called countless times over the last six weeks.
I don’t even have to look.
Breath in my throat, eyes squeezed shut, I press call, bring the phone to my ear, and lay my soul on the line.
