But my daughter was asleep on my chest.
And I suddenly understood that every time I swallowed my voice, I was practicing a language she might one day inherit.
“No,” I said again.
A smaller word this time.
Stronger.
Ryan looked at Eli. “You need to leave.”
Eli stood fully then.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, still wearing the flannel shirt now stained near the cuff from where I had gripped him during delivery. He looked exhausted. His hair was damp from melted snow. There was a scratch across one knuckle from when he had slipped on the icy sidewalk carrying my hospital bag.
He looked nothing like the men Ryan respected.
No tailored suit.
No watch meant to announce a bonus.
No shiny language.
Just a man who had shown up.
“That’s up to Claire,” Eli said.
Ryan gave a short laugh. “You’re the neighbor. You’ve done enough.”
