The spring air in Central Park carried the scent of blooming flowers and roasted hot dogs from a nearby vendor. I sat on the bench, my hand resting on the swell of my belly, watching Danika chase pigeons with the kind of fearless joy only a four-year-old could possess. Her laughter rang out across the grass, bright and pure, cutting through the ambient noise of the city like a bell. I watched as Danika’s laughter echoed across the park, grounding me in the present even as Dante’s words tugged at memories I wasn’t ready to revisit.
“I’m just saying,” Dante continued, his voice patient but trying for lightness, “you have the credentials, the experience. You know there aren’t many people who get what those kids go through. You could really make a difference—if you wanted.” His attempt at nonchalance didn’t quite hide the hope in his eyes.
His words settled over me, heavy as a wool coat. My fingers traced slow circles over my stomach, feeling the firm roundness that had become familiar over the past months. Thirty-four weeks now. Eight months of carrying this life, this promise, this piece of Travis that would live on even though he couldn’t. A pang of guilt flickered beneath my gratitude—was I really avoiding the future, or just afraid to face it?
The pregnancy had been surprisingly uncomplicated. No morning sickness beyond the first trimester. No complications. No scares. Just steady, relentless growth, a body doing what bodies were designed to do, creating life with an efficiency that felt almost miraculous given everything else that had fallenapart. Still, every gentle kick reminded me that the future was coming, whether I was ready to meet it or not.
I was grateful for that. Grateful that at least this one thing had gone right, even as uncertainty curled in my chest.
“Are you even listening to me?” Dante asked, though his tone was more amused than annoyed, a crooked smile playing at his lips as if he was in on some private joke.
“Not really,” I admitted, the corners of my mouth lifting in apology. “Sorry.” The weight of my own thoughts made the words softer, almost reluctant.
He sighed, leaning back against the bench and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a therapist, you’re remarkably bad at taking advice.” There was a gentle tease in his words, but I caught the faint thread of concern running underneath.
“I’m on leave,” I reminded him, almost defensively, but I softened my words with a small, tired smile. “Technically, I don’t have to listen to anyone right now.” Part of me wished I could believe that as easily as I said it.
“Technically,” he agreed, letting the word linger, “you’re avoiding the subject.” His eyes searched mine, but he didn’t push further.
He wasn’t wrong. The truth was, I didn’t know how to let go of fear when the future felt so impossibly fragile.
Danika squealed as a particularly bold pigeon refused to flee, standing its ground and cocking its head at her with what looked like avian judgment. She stopped short, suddenly uncertain, then looked back at me with wide eyes.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I called out. “He’s just saying hello.”
She considered this, then carefully extended one small hand toward the bird. It hopped once, twice, then flew away in a flutter of gray wings. Danika’s face lit up with triumph, and shespun in a circle, arms outstretched like she’d just conquered the world.
My daughter.
The word still felt strange in my mind, even after all these months. Even after the adoption papers had been finalized, after her room had been set up in the house Rowen had bought, after countless nights of reading bedtime stories and wiping away tears and learning the particular cadence of her needs.
Dante had made it happen. He walked into Sinclair’s office one afternoon and delivered an ultimatum that was as simple as it was effective:Make Melissa Danika’s legal guardian, or you’ll never see her again.
Sinclair had stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he picked up his phone and made a call. Two weeks later, a courier arrived at my door with a thick envelope containing adoption papers, already signed by every necessary party, requiring only my signature to make it official.
I cried when I signed them. Not sad tears, but something else. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or the overwhelming weight of suddenly being responsible for another human being when I could barely keep myself together.
But I’d signed them.
And Danika had become mine.
“The practice could be small at first,” Dante was saying, pulling me back to the present. “Just a few clients. Maybe work with some of the families in the organization who need—”
“Dante.”
He stopped, looking at me with those dark eyes that saw too much.
“I know what you’re doing,” I said quietly.
“What am I doing?”
“Trying to give me purpose. Trying to keep me busy so I don’t fall apart.”
He didn’t deny it. “Is it working?”
I looked down at my belly, studying the way my hand curved protectively over it. “I don’t know yet.”
The truth was more complicated than that. The truth was that Ihadfound purpose, but it wasn’t the kind that could be neatly packaged into a career or a practice or a plan. It was the kind that came from simply surviving each day. From getting out of bed, even when the weight of grief made it feel impossible. From eating, even when food tasted like ash. From choosing life, over and over again, even when death seemed easier.
