Page 32 of His Daughter

Sandra turned to me. "The baby. Where is she?"

My legs moved before my brain gave permission. Down the hallway, past the bathroom, to the nursery door — which was already open.

She was in the crib. Asleep. The blue blanket over her, her small fists resting on either side of her head. Her lips were parted. Her breathing was slow. She looked like she'd always been here, like the crib was built for her, which it was.

I reached in and picked her up. She stirred against my chest, made a small sound, and settled. Her fist found my collar and held on. Her cheek pressed against my collarbone, warm and impossibly soft.

My hands were shaking. My heart was beating so hard I was sure she could feel it through my shirt, but my legs moved. They moved down the hallway and into the living room, where Sandra was waiting with a carrier, a blanket, and the paperwork that would take this baby out of my arms and into the system.

The system I worked within every day. The system I fought for my clients inside, the one I navigated, challenged, and believed in, even when it failed. And now it was standing in my living room, reaching for the baby on my chest.

"I'll take her," Sandra said.

I looked down. The baby's fist was curled around my collar. Her fingers were so small they barely wrapped around the fabric, but the grip was fierce.

I uncurled her fingers, one by one, gently, slowly, peeling them away from my shirt. She whimpered. Her hand opened, grasping at the air, reaching for the fabric that was no longer there.

I transferred her to Sandra. The weight left my arms, and the absence of it was physical — a cold that spread from my chest outward, through my ribs, into my hands.

The baby screamed.

The sound ripped through the room. She arched in Sandra's arms, her face red, her mouth wide open. Sandra bounced her gently, murmured something, and adjusted her hold. The crying didn't stop.

Sandra didn’t stop. She carried her down the porch steps. I stood in the doorway. The rain was lighter now, a mist. The crying carried across the yard and down the walkway and into the open door of the car. Sandra buckled the carrier and closed the door.

The crying was muffled now. Distant. But I could still hear it — through the glass, through the rain, through the distance that was growing between my porch and the car as Sandra walked around to the driver's side and got in.

The car pulled away from the curb. The taillights glowed red in the mist. I stood in the doorway and listened until the car turned the corner and the sound was gone.

Declan was still in my living room. I turned. He was standing in the middle of the room, his hands at his sides, water still dripping from his jacket onto my floor. He looked at me for a long second, and then he walked past me, out the door, and pulled it shut behind him.

This was the second time.

I walked to the kitchen. The bottle I'd made that morning was still on the counter, half-full, the formula settled and separating. I picked it up, poured it down the sink, and washed the bottle. I dried it, set it on the rack, and washed the pan from yesterday.

Then I walked to the nursery and stood over the empty crib. The white onesie I dressed her in that morning was folded on the changing table. I picked it up, pressed it against my face, and inhaled until my lungs were full of chamomile.

I sank to the floor. My back against the crib. The onesie pressed to my mouth. I sat there, but I didn't cry. I pressed my palms against my eyes and waited for the ringing to stop.

It didn't stop for a long time.

I went back to work. What else was there to do?

I sat down and opened the top file — Reyna Molina, twenty-eight, two kids, a housing voucher that expired in three weeks. I read the intake notes, started making a plan, called the voucher office, and got a recording. I wrote down the callback number and opened the next file.

Margot appeared in the doorway. Her printed scarf was yellow today, and her reading glasses were on her head. She was holding two mugs of coffee. She set one on my desk and looked at me.

"Good morning," I said and smiled.

Her eyes narrowed. "You're awfully chipper. What's going on?"

"Nothing. Just a good day." It was a lie. But maybe if I believed it hard enough, it’d become true.

Margot set her own mug down. She walked around my desk, closed the Molina file with one hand, and sat on the edge of the desk, her legs crossed.

"Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about. I'm working."