Two days later, Rose helped me bring the baby home.
She stocked the fridge, made soup, folded baby clothes, and somehow still found time to mutter insults about Jack under her breath.
Every few hours, she would ask, “Anything from him?”
Every time I said no, her lips tightened further.
Then, four days after he left—and two days after I brought our daughter home—the front door finally opened.
Jack walked in, reeking of stale beer and smoke.
“Hey, babe,” he said casually. “Where’s my little princess? I got a little held up.”
I stood by the crib, holding our daughter, and just stared at him.
His smile faltered when he saw my face.
“Come on. Don’t look at me like that.”
Then Rose stepped out of the kitchen.
Her cane tapped once against the floor.
“Grandma,” he said, relieved. “Thank God. Tell her—”
“No,” Rose cut him off.
Jack blinked. “What?”
She stepped closer.
“Your daughter was born four days ago while you were out drinking. Your wife labored alone. She bled alone. She became a mother without you. And now you are going to listen very carefully.”
He gave a nervous laugh.
“Okay, wow. I said I got held up.”
Rose held out an envelope.
“Open it.”
“What is this?”
“Your new reality.”
He took it, clearly irritated, and pulled out the contents.
A typed chore list.
A parenting schedule.
And legal paperwork.
Leave a Comment