No explanation. No performance. No if.
Just sorry.
I looked at him for a long second.
“I know,” I said. “That doesn’t fix anything.”
He swallowed. Nodded. Gave her back.
After he left, the room seemed bigger. Emptier. More mine.
I thought that would be the end of the day’s emotional violence.
It wasn’t.
Three days later, after I brought Nora home and was learning the humiliating, tender mechanics of postpartum life—mesh underwear, leaking milk, exhaustion so deep it felt cellular—Sandra emailed me the latest filing from Gerald.
I opened it one-handed while Nora slept on my chest in a halo of warm breath and baby shampoo.
Nathan was seeking expanded custody.
The filing emphasized his recent “commitment to stability,” his intention to create “a two-parent support structure,” and the broad claim that his environment could offer “continuity and emotional consistency.”
Brooke’s name appeared in a footnote about household support.
A footnote.
Like she was furniture.
I stared at that page while my daughter slept through it all, one fist tucked under her cheek.
She hadn’t even been home a week.
And Nathan was already trying to build his second life on top of her first.