They both nodded, their eyes never leaving their baby.
Once the cord lightened, I asked her husband if he wanted to cut it. He stepped back with a shaky laugh, and she reached for my hand instead, silently asking me to do it. I clamped the cord, then cut it slowly so the moment stayed calm for the baby tucked against her mother’s chest.
She didn’t cry. She just blinked at the world, like knew she was safe.
I set the placenta on a clean towel and showed it to them the way I always did. “This nourished her for months,” I told them.“You can keep it. You can freeze it, bury it, or cook a portion. It’s full of nutrients that help the body heal.”
The mother nodded without hesitation. Her husband followed her lead.
So, I rinsed it carefully and wrapped it in baking paper before sealing it in a freezer-safe container. I labeled it with the date and the baby’s name, then placed it in their refrigerator for whenever they were ready.
When everything was complete, I helped the mother out of the tub and dried her slowly so her body didn’t tense back up. She walked to the bed with her baby in her arms, and I tucked pillows around her until she looked comfortable enough to melt into them. The baby latched easily, and her mother released a long breath like she had been carrying the whole world inside her and finally set it down.
Her husband slipped onto the bed beside them. Watching the three of them settle like that made the entire room feel softer.
I stayed long enough to make sure her bleeding was normal and her body was warming back up. Then I cleaned the tub, replaced the sheets, and refreshed their water and snacks. By the time I told them goodnight, the mother squeezed my hand with this sleepy gratitude that settled straight into my heart, and her husband hugged me like he didn’t know how to thank me enough.
I stepped outside with my bag on my shoulder, feeling that familiar warmth that always followed a safe delivery. The sky was dark and quiet, and the air smelled like the beginning of fall. I whispered a prayer for their family, then headed to my car with the kind of peace only birth ever gave me.
I drove back to the lake house with the windows cracked, letting the cool air settle around me. The driveway came into view, and something felt slightly off before I even parked. The lights inside the house appeared dimmer than I left them, andthere was a stillness that didn’t feel natural. I slipped my hand into my bag and wrapped my fingers around my gun as I walked toward the front door. I hesitated for a moment, listening for anything unusual, yet the house remained quiet except for a faint sound I couldn’t quite make out.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Soft music floated in from deeper into the house. My grip on the gun tightened as I moved forward, cautious but determined not to ignore my instincts. A few steps in, something brushed against my shoe, and I looked down to see rose petals scattered along the floor in a careful trail. My heart paused in confusion as I followed the path with my eyes.
Then the scent hit me.
I would have known that fragrance anywhere. Kwame had worn it often. It clung to him the way pride clung to his posture, and even after weeks apart, my body remembered him instantly. His presence always had a way of filling a space before he said a single word.
I let out a slow breath and lowered my gun, sliding the safety on before placing it back into my bag.
I walked deeper into the home and turned on the light. When the room brightened, I stopped completely.
Roses were everywhere. Their petals covered the table, the counters, and the floor. In the far corner, a man sat with a saxophone resting against his knee, playing one of my favorite jazz melodies with a quiet grace that touched something deep inside me.
The moment felt surreal, and for a second I wondered if I had fallen asleep in the car.
Footsteps approached behind me, and when I turned, Kwame stepped into the soft glow of the living room.
He looked… undone. He looked handsome, composed and powerful, yes, but undone in a way I had never seen him before.His eyes carried the exhaustion of a man who had spent weeks wrestling with himself, and his shoulders looked heavier than the day I left.
He wore a dark suit with the collar open like he had been pulling at it during the drive over. His hair was groomed, but not with his usual sharp waves. His scent drifted toward me with every step he took.
“Treasure,” he said, stopping a few feet in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words landing with a weight I had never heard from him before. “I know I’ve been selfish. I know I hurt you.”
I held his gaze without speaking, because I needed more than apologies. I needed change.
Kwame stepped closer, slow and intentional, as if rushing might frighten me back into the shell I had built. He inhaled softly, letting me feel the truth in his voice.
“I miss you. I miss us. I don’t like how the only time I get to see my wife is in a courtroom with our son.”
My throat tightened, but I stayed quiet. I needed to hear everything.
“I will do whatever I have to do to get you back,” he continued. “I will fix what I broke. I will learn how to help our son instead of controlling him. I will educate myself, and I will do it the right way. If Kay’Lo agrees to it, I will call in specialists. They will review every note, every file, every observation from the moment Kay’Lo first showed symptoms. If his diagnosis is accurate, I will support him as he learns how to manage it. If it isn’t, we will find the truth together. I promise you that.”
The words hung between us, and something inside me softened even as I tried to hold my composure.
He reached for my hand slowly, giving me the chance to refuse, but I didn’t. His fingers wrapped around mine, and helifted my hand toward his lips, kissing the back of it with a tenderness that felt foreign coming from him.
