Chapter 8
We left the coffee shop without saying goodbye.
Diane’s proposal hung in the air between us all the way home.
“Give me a break,” Ethan muttered, slamming his car door. “Give our baby away. What is wrong with her?”
I didn’t answer.
I was still in shock.
One minute we were having a beautiful reunion.
The next, Diane was suggesting we hand over our daughter like she was a hand-me-down couch.
“Did you see Clara’s face?” Ethan continued. “She looked like she wanted to crawl under the table. Mom just ruined everything. The first real meeting with her daughter and she blows it up with some crazy adoption scheme.”
He hit the steering wheel.
“Again! She does this every single time! Things are going good, and then she has to open her mouth and say the most insane thing possible. Why can’t she just be normal for five minutes?”
I put my hand on his arm.
“Ethan, she’s trying to fix her past.”
“At our expense?” he said. “At our daughter’s expense? That’s not okay. That’s never okay.”
“I know,” I said. “But think about it. She gave Clara up. She’s regretted it every day for thirty-one years. And then she finds out Clara can’t have kids. And here I am, pregnant with a baby she thinks we can’t afford. In her messed up head, she’s not trying to hurt us. She’s trying to save everyone.”
Ethan looked at me.
“Are you actually defending her again?”
“I’m not defending the idea,” I said. “It’s insane. Offensive. Horrible. But I understand where it came from. And honestly? I feel bad for her. She finally gets her daughter back, and the first thing she does is scare her away.”
My phone buzzed.
It was a text from Clara.
I’m so sorry about that. She had no right to say any of it. Are you guys okay?
I showed Ethan.
He sighed.
“Text her back. Tell her we’re fine. Tell her we know it wasn’t her idea.”
I did.
A minute later, Clara replied.
I don’t think I can see her again for a while. That was… a lot. But I still want you guys in my life. You’re my brother. You’re my family. Just… maybe leave her at home next time?
Ethan read it and nodded.
“Fair,” he said. “Completely fair.”
The next few weeks were tense.
Diane called every day.
Ethan never answered.
She showed up at the house once with groceries.
Ethan spoke to her through the closed door.
“Mom, you need to go. What you suggested was out of line. You need to give us space.”
“Ethan, please, let me explain—”
“There’s nothing to explain. You offered our daughter to Clara. Do you have any idea how messed up that is? How insulting? We’re not incompetent. We’re not unfit. We’re just young and broke. But we love that baby more than anything in the world.”
“I know you do—”
“Then why would you say that?”
Silence on the other side of the door.
“Because I was scared,” she said finally. Her voice was muffled. “I was scared Clara would never get to be a mom. And I was scared you’d struggle like Robert and I did. We ate peanut butter and jelly for a year when you were a baby. We lived in a studio apartment with a roach problem. I didn’t want that for you. I didn’t want that for her.”
“Then help us!” Ethan shouted through the door. “Don’t take our baby! Help us! Buy us diapers. Bring us meals. Babysit when we’re exhausted. Be a grandmother. Not a matchmaker.”
He paused.
“I have to go, Mom. We’ll call you when we’re ready.”
He heard her footsteps fade away.
Two days later, a package arrived on our porch.
No note.
Just a box.
Inside:
Three cases of diapers.
Two cases of formula.
Onesies in every size up to twelve months.
A gift card to the grocery store for five hundred dollars.
And a tiny hand-knit blanket.
Pink.
With a crocheted border.
I picked it up.
It was soft.
Perfect.
Ethan came over and looked inside the box.
He picked up the blanket.
“Mom made this,” he said quietly. “She used to knit me blankets when I was sick. Same pattern.”
He ran his finger over the stitches.
“Every single one of these things is exactly what we need. Exactly what we couldn’t afford.”
He looked at me.
“She’s trying,” he said. “In her own completely insane, over-the-top, boundary-violating way… she’s trying.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
That night, we got another text from Clara.
She’d sent a photo.
Her and her husband, Mark, standing in front of a nursery.
Pale yellow walls.
Winnie the Pooh border.
Empty crib.
The caption: Still waiting. But not giving up.
I showed Ethan.
He sat down on the couch.
“Life is so unfair,” he said. “Clara would be the best mom in the world. She has the house, the money, the patience. And she can’t have kids. And we’re over here, two kids who can barely pay our electric bill, and we’re about to have a baby we didn’t even plan for.”
He looked at me.
“Sometimes I wonder if Mom was right. Not about giving her away. Never that. But… are we ready for this?”
I sat down next to him.
I took his hand and put it on my stomach.
Our daughter kicked against his palm.
“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” I said. “We’re going to make mistakes. We’re going to fight. We’re going to eat a lot of mac and cheese. But we’re going to love her. And that’s what matters.”
Ethan smiled.
A real smile.
The first one in days.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what matters.”
Three weeks before my due date, my blood pressure spiked.
The doctor put me on bed rest.
No work.
No lifting.
No stress.
Ethan took on extra shifts.
He was exhausted.
We were falling behind on bills.
The box of groceries from Diane was long gone.
We were back to eating peanut butter and jelly.
And then, one Tuesday afternoon, there was a knock on the door.
I dragged myself out of bed and peeked through the peephole.
It was Clara.
I opened the door.
She was standing there with two grocery bags and a concerned look on her face.
“Ethan called me,” she said. “Said you’re on bed rest and he’s stuck at work. Said you haven’t eaten anything decent in three days.”
She pushed past me into the house.
“Go lie down. I’m making lasagna.”
I stared at her.
“You drove two hours from Knoxville to make me lasagna?”
She smiled.
May you like
That smile.
“Family shows up,” she said. “Right?”
