He was lying in the bassinet, face scrunched in outrage at being awake and alone for perhaps thirty entire seconds. I picked him up and held him against my chest. His fussing softened into small hiccups.
“You have very strong opinions,” I told him.
Nora leaned in the doorway. “He gets that from you.”
“I used to have opinions.”
“You still do. They’re coming back online.”
I smiled down at Noah. “Is that what this is?”
“Yes. System reboot.”
Later, while Nora made dinner, I stood at the kitchen counter and opened my email. Priya had sent a summary of our call and a list of instructions. At the bottom was a sentence that made my throat tighten.
You are not required to prove you are perfect. You are only required to show that your child is safe, loved, and cared for.
I read it three times.
Then I printed it and tucked it into the front pocket of the red folder.
Not as evidence.
As a reminder.
Dinner was soup and bread, eaten in shifts because Noah chose that exact hour to remember he was starving. Daniel told a story about one of his students confidently claiming that the Boston Tea Party happened because “everyone was tired and needed drama.” Nora laughed so hard she nearly spilled her water.
I laughed too.
For a moment, the room felt almost normal.
Not the old normal. Not the polished, fragile peace of Evan’s house, where every smile had to be approved by the weather of his mood.
A new normal.
Messier. Kinder. Full of soup bowls and baby blankets and people who did not punish me for needing help.
After dinner, Nora took Noah so I could shower. I stood under the warm water and cried for the first time since court.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just tears, mixing with water, leaving as quietly as they came.
I cried for the woman who had believed love meant trying harder.
I cried for the job I had left.
I cried for the nursery I had painted in soft green, thinking it would be my son’s first room.
I cried for Anna, though I did not know her.
And then, when the water began to cool, I stopped.
