Chapter 8 - OUR DAUGHTER
Our daughter was born at thirty-nine weeks.
Healthy.
Seven pounds, four ounces.
Dark hair.
Furious lungs.
We named her Maya.
Mom was not there.
That was Evelyn’s decision.
My aunt complained.
I blocked her.
Easy.
Maya was placed on Evelyn’s chest.
I cried so hard the nurse laughed.
Evelyn looked exhausted.
Beautiful.
Terrified.
Happy.
All at once.
Then she looked at me.
“We need rules.”
I almost laughed.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“No visitors without both of us agreeing.”
“Yes.”
“No one stays overnight.”
“Yes.”
“No family member has keys.”
“Yes.”
“No person gets access to Maya because they’re related.”
“Yes.”
“If I say someone makes me uncomfortable—”
“We take it seriously.”
She stopped.
Not:
I automatically obey.
Seriously.
That was better.
“And if you think I’m wrong?”
“We discuss it somewhere safe.”
Her eyes filled.
“Okay.”
Then:
“And your mom?”
I waited.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
Meaning no contact.
“Then nothing.”
Maya yawned.
Conversation over.
For nine months after birth, Mom never met her.
People called that cruel.
I learned not to care.
Eventually, Evelyn allowed one photograph to be sent through my attorney.
No address.
No invitation.
Later, a supervised meeting became possible.
Then postponed.
Then maybe.
No schedule.
May you like
Healing did not owe anyone efficiency.
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