“When Rachel got pregnant, he stayed. When the doctors said there might be complications, he got nervous. Then Rachel died.”
She stopped.
Her mouth trembled.
“And when they told him Maisie had Down syndrome, he was gone within days.”
I stared at her.
“He abandoned his daughter?”
“He said he couldn’t do it.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
“You tell me.”
I looked around the kitchen.
Then I asked the harder question.
“Why didn’t you take her?”
Marlene looked straight at me.
“Look at me, Pete.”
I did.
“I’m still drinking.”
I realized then that her speech was also slurring.
“I couldn’t raise Rachel right half the time,” she said. “You think I should take a baby who needs appointments, therapy, and stability?”
“You could get help.”
“And then what happens when I disappear into this again?”
She tapped the bottle.
I did not know what to say.
Her eyes filled.
“Not taking Maisie is probably the first responsible thing I’ve done in years.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Before I left, I asked where Rachel was buried.
Marlene gave me directions.
The cemetery was on the edge of town.
I found Rachel’s grave beneath a maple tree.
Her headstone was simple.
Rachel.
Beloved Daughter and Mother.
I sat in the grass.
For a long time, I said nothing.
Then I laughed once because I did not know what else to do.
“Nine years,” I said.
The wind moved through the branches.
“I thought about calling you a thousand times.”
My voice broke.
“I didn’t.”
I looked at her name.
“I’m sorry.”
I told her about Maisie.
About the yellow sleeper.
The missing sock.
The way she grabbed my collar.
“I saw the birthmark.”
I wiped my face.
“She’s beautiful, Rach.”
Then I said the only promise I felt I had the right to make.
“If they’ll let me, I’m going to make sure she has someone who stays.”
The next morning, I called Nora.
“I want to know what I have to do.”
There was a pause.
“To do what?”
“To be considered for Maisie’s placement.”
That began the longest process of my life.
I stayed in town.
That was not difficult financially.
My parents had died six years earlier, within 11 months of each other.
I never sold their house.
I could not.
I had paid a local company to maintain it, keep utilities running, handle repairs, and prevent it from falling apart.
For years, I regarded keeping it as an expensive emotional weakness.
Suddenly, I needed this home.
I was no longer merely visiting. I was moving back in.
My work as a financial consultant was mostly remote anyway.
Then came the paperwork.
Applications.
References.
Background checks.
Fingerprinting.
Financial records.
Health forms.
Training.
Home inspections.
Interviews.
The social worker assigned to me, Diane, was polite but relentless.
“Who helps you if you’re sick?”
“My friend Greg.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Anyone else?”
I assembled a list.
