After the morning I had just had, I noticed.
“Call me if you need anything,” he said.
“I will.”
“You probably won’t.”
I smiled. “Probably not.”
“Call anyway.”
When he left, Clara had started waking.
I took her out of the wrap and carried her down the hallway.
The house looked exactly as it had before.
Boxes still lined one wall.
The new couch still hadn’t arrived.
A stack of clean baby clothes sat unfolded on a chair in the nursery.
Nothing about the building itself had changed.
But when I walked into Clara’s room, I no longer felt like I was waiting for someone else to decide whether my choices were legitimate.
That evening, after Clara’s feeding, I looked at my phone.
Nancy hadn’t called.
Neither had Gil.
Krista had sent one message.
I’m sorry. I really thought you’d agreed.
I believed her.
I typed back:
I know.
Then I stared at Nancy’s name for almost a minute before calling.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
Her voice was cool.
“Hi.”
A pause.
“Is something wrong with the baby?”
“No. Clara’s fine.”
Another pause.
I knew what she was waiting for.
An apology.
For most of my life, apologizing had been the toll I paid to restart our relationship after disagreeing with her.
Sometimes I apologized for my tone.
Sometimes for timing.
Sometimes for hurting her feelings by making a decision that was mine to make.
This time I didn’t.
“I meant what I said this morning.”
“What part?”
“I want you in Clara’s life.”
Silence.
“I want you in mine too,” I continued. “But it needs to be different.”
“I see.”
“I’d like you to visit.”
That caught her off guard.
“When?”
“Not tomorrow. Not this week.”
“Of course.”
“I still need time to recover.”
“I heard you.”
“But maybe in a few weeks. A Saturday afternoon.”
“With Gil?”
“Just you the first time.”
Another pause.
“No Krista?”
“Just you.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to do?”
“Visit.”
“With my granddaughter.”
“Yes.”
I walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter.
“I’ll make coffee. You can hold Clara. We can talk.”
“I don’t need an appointment to see my family.”