“Yeah,” I say quietly. “She does.”
I linger, watching her tiny chest rise and fall, her lashes fluttering as if she’s dreaming already. I reach in and brush a fingertip along her cheek — warm, smooth, perfect.
“Goodnight, my sweet,” I whisper.
Nalani touches my shoulder gently. “I’m wiped. You good?”
“Thank you.” I nod.
I change into a tee shirt, turn off the light, and crawl into bed. The faint lullaby still plays, looping quietly through the small space.
For the first time in months, I don’t think about what’s next or what could go wrong. I focus on this. The softness of her breath. The faint tune from the music box.
The feeling of finally being safe enough to close my eyes.
And as the lullaby fades, so do I — slipping into sleep with the steady heartbeat of my daughter’s new beginning beside me.
I’ll never getover how much peace she brings me, how watching her sleep is the most euphoric feeling in the world.
And the pure happiness I feel when Savannah stirs in her pink-gray sleeper, stretching her arms overhead, her mouth opening in a tiny yawn, untouchable.
“Morning, sweet little one,” I whisper as I lift her out. Her body melts against me, warm and soft.
I settle back onto the bed and adjust my shirt. She latches easily, sighing through her nose, her little hand gripping the fabric of my sleeve. Feeding her empowers me and gives me a greater sense of purpose than the many degrees I have collected over the years. And mornings with her, I sigh, it’s the best part of the day. It’s purely good—no noise, no doubts, no one asking for more than I can give. Even when outside, I hear sounds of the city. A siren in the distance. A car horn. The muffled bass of life moving on. But in here, it’s just the two of us.
When she’s done, I shift her upright, patting her back gently until a soft burp escapes her. “Good one, sweet little one,” I murmur with a tired laugh, kissing the crown of her head.
I lay her back in her new bed. She blinks up at me, one dimple deepening in her cheek as she gives a half-smile that feels almost deliberate.
That’s when my phone buzzes beside the cot.
A text. From Kyle.
Kyle
Breakfast? 9 a.m. The Coffee Room on MacDougal.
Then another, seconds later.
Kyle:
Don’t be late
Me:
I have nothing to say to you. I have plans.
Kyle:
Then just listen. I won’t take up much time.
My chest tightens. Same tone. Same entitlement. He doesn’t ask—he instructs. Always has.
I stare at the screen a moment, then glance back at Savannah. “What do you think, sweet little one? Sounds like someone woke up still being himself.”
She kicks her legs and makes a soft coo that almost sounds like agreement.
After a shower,I pull on jeans and a cream sweater, twisting my hair into a loose braid. I move through the motions—packingher bag, her blanket, her favorite pink teether—because that’s what mothers do. Routine keeps your hands steady even when your heart’s not.
