Page 21

Crumbs. Everywhere.

I wipe down the highchair, scrub some berry residue from the floor, and load the sink with dirty dishes. A random plastic spoon has somehow ended up on the other side of the kitchen, but I track it down and toss it into the dishwasher.

When the kitchen is clean, I turn on the TV. I’ve noticed that when Rosie takes her nap, Wes keeps the house quiet. I can’t handle silence, and every kid should be used to noise. By the time I’m done with her, Rosie will be able to sleep through a hurricane. But for today, we’ll start with the TV.

My eyes land on the bookshelf against the far wall,packed with his vinyl records. I find myself examining the photos again, especially the one of Rosie as a newborn with her parents.

Poor baby girl.

My stomach twists with that surge of empathy. I set a mental note to ask Wes their names later. It feels strange to have their daughter in my care and not know their names.

A roll of blueprints juts out, wedged next to the picture frame. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I carefully slide them free. They detail plans for a house renovation: built-in shelves, a brand-new deck, and an updated kitchen. At least he can check the kitchen off his list. But clearly, Wes had big ideas for this place.

Hadbeing the key word because life happened, and Rosie happened.

I think we might be alike in that way, stuck in places that never quite got finished. His are measured in blueprints and unpainted walls. Mine are a little harder to spot. More of a state of mind. Half-built dreams and corners I haven’t dared to unpack yet.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I tuck the blueprints back.

I’m tempted to bundle Rosie up and head to the park, but something tells me Wes would have a minor coronary if I left on my first full day, especially in the “rust bucket,” as he affectionately called my car. I can’t really blame him. I think he trusts me as much as you can trust anyone with your kid. He’s just struggling.

He’ll figure out soon enough that we’re fine. A week, maybe two, and he’ll see that Rosie is safe and happy. Then we can venture further than the front yard without him hyperventilating.

As if on cue, the baby monitorcrackles to life with a tiny rustle. I lean in, listening to Rosie’s soft movements, followed by a sleepy hum. Nap time is officially over.

By the time I reach the nursery, Rosie’s already sitting up, eyes half-lidded. Her curls are mashed to one side, and she’s got a faint pink line on her cheek from the crib sheet.

“Hello there, sleepy head,” I say quietly, stepping closer. She blinks at me, then huffs, like waking up is such an inconvenience. With a dramatic flop, she falls back onto the mattress. “Tough life, huh?”

She exhales another sigh, chubby legs kicking out once in protest, until she finally lifts her arms, demandingUp, woman!

In the hallway, she pats my collarbone, pointing down the stairs. I dutifully follow her lead to the living room, where she wriggles out of my arms and speed-toddles straight to her basket of toys.

I watch as she rustles through them like a little tornado. When she finally emerges, she’s hugging a stuffed grey elephant to her chest, and she turns to me with a beaming smile.

“Is that your favorite?” I kneel beside her. “What’s their name?”

Rosie blinks, then thrusts the elephant into my lap before grabbing my hand and placing it on the plush head.

“Oh, you’re sharing? How generous,” I say softly. “How about Ellie?”

Original, Lena.

Rosie grins, nods, then plops onto her diapered butt with a flourish. And just like that, I’m part of her inner circle.

∞∞∞

“I swear I didn’t touch them.” I hold up my hands for Rosie to see. She’s been determined to get her blocks more than two high for twenty minutes, and they always topple. According to the stink eye she’s giving me, it’s always my fault. “We almost had it that time.”

We’re soaking up the late afternoon sun on a blanket in the front yard, a welcome break from being cooped up. I figured some fresh air might tire her out before dinner, but mostly, it’s just nice to sit and do nothing.

Rosie is setting up her blocks again when the low rumble of a truck engine breaks her concentration. I glance up, shielding my eyes to see Wes pulling into the driveway. I didn’t expect him back so soon.

The second he’s out of the truck, his eyes zero in on Rosie, and all that tension in his shoulders dissolves.

“There’s my princess,” he says, voice tinged with relief. He crosses the yard in a few long strides and pulls her into his arms. “How was she?”

I’m not sure if he’s asking me or Rosie, but I answer anyway. “Great. We had lots of fun. She’s an angel.” I stand and brush off my shorts. “You’re home early. I thought I was supposed to watch her until five?”