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.”
