So I let her keep it.
Who am I to take comfort away from something so small and sweet?
The low hum of“The Mother” by Brandi Carlile plays softly through the TV, the fire crackling quietly behind us, filling the room with a golden glow. The warmth on my skin makes me drowsy, but I don’t dare move. Not yet.
And because I’m really weak where this man is concerned, I rescheduled my two appointments for tomorrow. My weekends are always free. So for the next few days… I’ll be here—if Kade needs me.
Maybe it’s fast and stupid and reckless. Maybe my heart will crack open and bleed all over this floor when all this ends.
But as I stare down at her, at this beautiful, brave little girl sleeping against my heart, I know I’d do it all again.
She stopped sucking on the bottle a while ago, her lips now puckered in soft little snores. I slip it gently from her mouth and rub slow circles on her back with one hand while my other fingers trail through her damp hair, still soft and sweet-smelling from the bath.
It shouldn’t be this easy.
Not for someone like me.
I’m a social worker. I’ve been trained to create boundaries, to build walls between myself and the families I work with.
I know the dangers of attachment. I’ve lived the worst-case scenarios.
And yet… from the second I walked into that hospital room and saw her tiny face, red and scrunched and screaming for someone who’d never come, it was already too late.
Maybe it’s because I see myself in her—a helpless little girl, alone in the world, born from tragedy and crying out for someone,anyone, to choose her.
That was me.
Only I didn’t have a Kade.
Didn’t have a Bea—or even an Ethel.
I have no doubt the social workers who tried to help me cared. You don’t do this job if you don’t care. But the times were different, the system was thinner, and the community I was born into makes Summit County look like LA.
I fell through every crack. Every gap and fracture. Again and again.
But Aurora didn’t.
She won’t.
Because Ethel won’t let her.
Because Kade won’t let her.
And neither will I.
A lump rises in my throat, thick and unrelenting. I shift her upright and gently burp her, holding my breath when she stirs, then settles again with a sigh that makes my heart ache.
When she’s fully asleep, I stand, slow and careful, my legs screaming in protest from how long I’ve been sitting, and carry her into the nursery. I lower her into the crib, settling her into the firm mattress, making sure her blanket is tucked looselyaround her hips, not near her face. Her pacifier rests nearby. The teether ring she finally accepted earlier is still clutched in her tiny hand.
I double-check the monitor, adjust the angle, and gently draw the blackout curtains shut. The soft glow of the nightlights spills across the room in warm patterns of dancing bees and rainbows. They flicker gently on the pale yellow walls, and my chest throbs with something I don’t know how to name.
I brush a hand through her dark hair, lingering for just a second too long, and my vision blurs. I blink hard, swallowing down everything I feel but can’t say.
How did I fall this hard? And what the hell am I supposed to do if it ends?
Because this—this baby, this man, this messy, beautiful life?
This feels dangerously close to home—the one thing I’ve wished for my whole life but never found.
