I had not realized how lonely I had become until I was no longer lonely.
Almost a year after placement, we went to court.
The judge asked me questions.
I answered them.
My hands shook anyway.
Then she signed the final order.
Maisie became my daughter legally.
Afterward, Greg met us outside the courthouse.
He looked at her.
Then at me.
“I think about her sometimes.”
I knew what he meant.
“You made the decision you thought you could live with.”
He nodded slowly.
“She’s happy.”
“Yeah.”
Maisie reached toward him.
Greg smiled and let her grab his finger.
“She really is.”
That weekend, I took her to Rachel’s grave.
Maisie was walking by then, though “walking” meant taking six determined steps and then sitting down wherever gravity decided.
We brought flowers.
I spread a blanket beside the headstone and pulled out one of Maisie’s favorite books.
She climbed into my lap.
I read her a book.
She kept trying to turn three pages at once.
“One at a time,” I told her.
She giggled.
I looked at Rachel’s name.
There were still moments when her death felt impossible to understand.
Maisie did not fix that.
She was not supposed to.
She was her own person.
Her own life.
Her own joy.
I touched the birthmark on her cheek.
“I’m going to tell you all about your mom someday,” I whispered.
Maisie grabbed the book.
Apparently, she had more urgent concerns.
I laughed.
When we finished, I packed everything up.
Maisie held one of my fingers as we walked toward the car.
“Come on, kiddo,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
She looked up at me and smiled.
And we did.
