I carried Wren upstairs.
Placed her carefully in the bassinet.
Then I packed.
Diapers.
Formula.
Clothes for her.
Clothes for me.
The breast pump.
A toothbrush.
And one pale yellow blanket with tiny white ducks around the edge.
It was the first blanket Wren had ever been wrapped in.
Before Beverly took her.
Before anyone else held her.
I had hidden it in a drawer after Beverly announced that Wren would use her old family blanket instead.
I packed it.
Then I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my contacts.
There was one name I hadn’t called in almost two years.
Dad.
My finger hovered over it.
I remembered Chicago.
The briefcase.
The white roses.
The silver tea set.
I’m sorry. I’m in London.
I remembered Raymond holding me in the hospice corridor.
Then I remembered one message from six days earlier.
Is she healthy?
Are you?
I pressed call.
It rang once.
“Simone?”
My father’s voice sounded cautious.
Almost afraid I might disappear.
“Dad,” I said.
My voice was strangely steady.
“Come get me.”
He asked no questions.
Not why.
Not where Roland was.
Not whether I had argued with my husband.
There was one second of silence.
Then:
“Is the baby safe?”
“Yes.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sending Raymond. Thirty minutes. Don’t lift anything heavy. You’re six days postpartum. Let Raymond carry everything.”
I couldn’t speak.
He knew exactly how many days it had been.
“Simone?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for calling me.”
Then he hung up.
Exactly thirty minutes later, headlights crossed the wall.
A black Cadillac Escalade stopped outside.
Raymond stepped onto the driveway.
He was sixty-eight now.
His hair had turned completely gray.
He moved more slowly.
But he was still Raymond.
When he reached the front steps, he stopped.
He looked at me standing there in pajamas, Wren against my chest, diaper bag over my shoulder, hospital bracelet still around my wrist.
His face changed in the same way I had seen once before.
Sixteen years earlier.
In a hospice hallway.
“Hello, Simone.”
That nearly broke me.
“Hi, Raymond.”
“Your father asked me to bring you this.”
He handed me a heavy cream envelope.
Across the front, in my father’s precise handwriting, were the words:
Simone Celeste Caldwell.
Not Tran.
Caldwell.
I placed it in my bag unopened.
Then Raymond asked,
“May I see her?”
I turned slightly so he could see Wren.
He studied her face.
His eyes filled.
“She has your mother’s nose.”
No one had said that.
For six days, Beverly had insisted Wren was entirely Tran.
Roland said she looked like his father.
Raymond looked at her and saw my mother.
He returned to the Escalade and installed a brand-new infant seat.
My father had apparently told him to buy one on the way.
I went back into the kitchen and wrote Roland a note.
Roland,
Wren and I are safe.
We’re staying with my family.
When you’re ready to explain why your mother counts as family and we don’t, you can call me.
— Simone
I left the note beneath the kitchen light.
Then I placed my house key on top.
Raymond carried the bags.
He secured Wren in the new car seat.
Checked every strap.
Tucked the yellow blanket around her.
Then he opened the back door for me.
We drove away.
I never looked back.
What I didn’t know was that our driveway camera had already sent Roland an alert.
He was eating dessert at Faye’s house when his phone buzzed.
According to Faye, he opened the notification casually.
Then his fork stopped halfway to his mouth.
On the live video, he saw an older gray-haired man in a charcoal coat carrying a diaper bag down our steps.
Loading it into a black Cadillac.
Opening the door for me and my baby.
“Whose car is that?” Beverly asked over his shoulder.
Roland was already calling me.
My phone rang as we entered the highway.
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere Wren and I both count as family.”
“Simone, it was one dinner.”
“No,” I said. “It was simply the first time I stopped pretending.”
Silence.
Then:
“Who is that man? The one at the house?”
