The next few days moved with purpose.
Margaret filed paperwork revoking Ryan’s authorizations. Emily’s doctor updated her chart with strict privacy instructions. Ruth began tracing the connection between Linda Whitaker, Lakeside Women’s Clinic, and the older Fort Sheridan documents. Dad installed a new lock, not because Emily wanted to live in fear, but because she wanted to sleep.
Ryan continued calling.
Emily did not answer.
Then, one Friday morning, a letter arrived from his attorney.
It was formal, cold, and full of concern.
Ryan Carter wished to resolve matters peacefully. Ryan Carter remained committed to his marriage. Ryan Carter was worried about his unborn child. Ryan Carter requested supervised communication and access to medical updates.
Emily read it at the kitchen table, her oatmeal cooling beside her.
Dad watched her carefully. “You don’t have to respond today.”
“I know.”
“What are you thinking?”
She folded the letter once. “I’m thinking how strange it is that he sounds most loving through a lawyer.”
Dad’s mouth tightened. “That is not love.”
“No.” She looked toward the window, where sunlight rested on the bare branches. “But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life proving what it isn’t.”
He waited.
“I want to build something different. For the baby. For me.” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “And maybe even for the little boy in Milwaukee who deserves to know he isn’t a secret.”
Dad reached across the table and covered her hand with his.
“You sound like your mother.”
Emily smiled faintly. “I hope so.”
That afternoon, Priya visited with a list of support groups and resources. Emily had expected pamphlets and careful sympathy. Instead, Priya brought muffins and sat on the floor beside a stack of baby clothes, helping sort them by size.
“This one is impossibly tiny,” Priya said, holding up a yellow sleeper.
“My dad bought that,” Emily said. “He pretended he didn’t know it had ducks on the feet.”
From the doorway, Dad said, “Those are tactical ducks.”
Priya laughed. Emily did too.
The sound surprised her. It filled the room awkwardly at first, then naturally, as if laughter had been waiting nearby for permission to return.
Later, while folding a soft green blanket, Emily found herself crying again.
Priya did not rush to comfort her. She simply placed another blanket in Emily’s lap.
“I hate that happy things make me sad,” Emily said.
