I understood then that the man Ryan called a hermit had not hidden because he was strange.
He had hidden because the world had once demanded something impossible from him and then kept spinning after it took everything.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
Eli’s mouth tightened.
“Me too.”
Lily made a tiny squeaking sound.
We both looked at her.
After a moment, Eli said, “She’s strong.”
“She had to be.”
“So did her mother.”
I looked away because kindness still felt too dangerous. It threatened to undo me.
The next morning, I was discharged to Daniel’s apartment in Lincoln Park instead of the condo I had shared with Ryan.
Leaving the hospital felt like stepping into a life I had not packed for.
Daniel drove slowly. Eli followed in his truck with the hospital bags, the car seat base he had installed under the supervision of a nurse who declared him “adequately terrified,” and a grocery list Dana had written for postpartum survival.
