It never does when you have a baby.
Willow was asleep against my shoulder as I stepped into the laundromat, her tiny body warm and steady, her soft breath brushing against my neck. She was seven and a half months old—still at that stage where everything about her felt impossibly small and impossibly important.
She smelled like baby lotion and something sweeter I could never quite describe. Safety, maybe. Hope.
Her father had walked away before she was even born.
“I’m not ready,” he’d said, like fatherhood was a jacket he could just shrug off.
At first, I waited for him to change his mind. For a message. A call. Something.
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