Still, when Dad helped me inside, I felt like a guest in my own childhood.
He had prepared the downstairs bedroom so I would not have to climb stairs. Fresh sheets. A pitcher of water. My prenatal vitamins lined neatly beside a notebook where he had written my medication schedule in military-perfect handwriting.
On the dresser sat a small framed photo of Mom holding me as a newborn.
I picked it up.
“She would be furious,” I said.
Dad set down the duffel bag. “At me?”
“At everyone.”
His smile was sad. “She was small, but she could terrify a room.”
“She would know what to say.”
“She would start by feeding you.”
That made me cry again, but this time it was different. Not the helpless crying from the apartment. This was grief returning to a place where it belonged.
Over the next week, life became quiet in careful ways. Dad made oatmeal with too much cinnamon. I sat in the backyard wrapped in blankets, feeling the baby shift beneath my hands. Priya called every other day. My doctor adjusted my diet and rest schedule.
