Maisie woke once and cried until I pulled over to feed her. I sat in the front seat with the driver’s door cracked open, the air sharp and damp against my face, and held her while she drank her bottle. Her little hand opened and closed against my sweater. She made those small contented noises babies make when they trust that someone will always answer.
“I know,” I whispered, even though she wasn’t asking me anything. “I know, baby.”
When we finally reached my apartment in Seattle, the sky had already darkened into the kind of blue-gray that felt endless. My shoulders ached. My head pounded. I got Maisie upstairs, changed her diaper, warmed another bottle, set her in her bassinet, and only then let myself sit on the kitchen floor.
The silence in the apartment was different from the silence in the car. The silence in the car had been shock. This was recognition.
I had known for months, if I was honest. Maybe longer.
