Page 91 of His Daughter

She held our gaze for a moment. Then she nodded and turned to walk down the hallway. Her steps were steady. Her shoulders were straight. She walked like a woman who'd set something down and was moving forward without it.

I watched her go. Declan watched her go. The hallway was empty. The fluorescent lights buzzed.

He turned to me. His hand was still on my back. "What was that about? The warning?"

I shook my head. "I'll tell you everything later."

He looked at me. Searching. I put my hand on his chest. "Not now. Right now, I just want to be here."

He nodded. He took my hand. We walked down the hallway, through the lobby, and out the courthouse doors into the daylight. The sun was warm. The city was loud. A woman pushed a stroller past the courthouse steps, and a taxi honked, and somewhere a child laughed, and the world was ordinary and enormous and ours.

The car was at the curb. Thomas held the door. We slid in. Declan didn't tell him to drive. He turned to me.

His hand found mine on the leather seat. His eyes were pale blue and clear and looking at me without a single wall between us.

"I want to go home," he said. "And wherever you and Lena are — that's what home is."

I looked at our hands. His fingers laced through mine. The reddened knuckles. The watch he wore every day. My small hand inside his large one.

"I love you, Thea," he said softly.

"I want you to be Lena's mother. Not because I need someone to hold her when she cries. Because you chose her before I did." His thumb moved across my knuckle. "You chose her before you knew she was mine. You built a nursery for her. You painted letters on a wall. You memorized a birthmark from a file and carried it in your chest for months, and when she showed up on your doorstep, you recognized her. You recognized your daughter."

My eyes were burning. I blinked. The blur ran down my face in two warm lines.

"You're already her mother." His voice was quiet. "You were her mother when you held her at 3:00 am because you couldn't listen to her crying and do nothing. You were her mother in the hospital when the nurse said 'Mom' and no one in the room corrected her because no one needed to." His eyes were bright. His jaw was tight. "You were her mother through every bottle and every fever and every night in the rocking chair and every fight and every silence and every morning in the kitchen where the three of us existed like a family that always was."

He lifted my hand, kissed my knuckles, and held them against his mouth.

"You're her mom, Thea. You always were. I'm just asking you to stay with us. Forever."

The car was quiet. Thomas was facing forward, his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the street. The city moved outside the windows, and none of it touched us. We were in our own gravity.

I looked at Declan. He was sitting here, asking me to stay, and the asking was the bravest thing I'd ever seen him do.

I wasn't needed. That was the difference. My whole life, people kept me close because I was useful — because I held things together, because I showed up, because I was the steady one who never broke. My mother needed me to listen. Caleb needed me to be okay. The nonprofit needed me to bleed. Everyone needed me for what I could offer.

Declan wasn't asking me to carry anything. He was asking me to be here. Just me.

"Yes." My voice cracked. I cleared my throat. "Yes."

He pulled me into him. My face against his neck. His arms were tight around me. His hand in my hair. I could feel his heartbeat against my cheek — fast and hammering. I pressed my palm against his chest and held it there.

"Take us home," Declan said to Thomas.

The car pulled away from the curb. The courthouse shrank in the rear window. The city opened ahead of us — bright, loud, and alive.

I kept my hand on his chest. He kept his arm around me. And somewhere across town, in a penthouse that smelled like burnt garlic and lavender and baby powder, a little girl with blue eyes and a heart-shaped birthmark was sleeping in a crib with mint-green letters on the wall, and she was ours, and we were hers, and the word home wasn't a place anymore.

It was the three of us. It always was.

EPILOGUE

DECLAN

The espresso machine hummed next to a row of mismatched mugs.

They were Thea's. She brought them from her house — six of them, each a different color, each chipped or faded or bearing a logo from a 5K she ran, a nonprofit event, or a holiday gift exchange someone gave her years ago that she never threw away. They sat on the shelf beside my white porcelain set, and the contrast was absurd, but I wouldn't move them for anything in the world.