I laughed.
“What is?”
“Parenting your child without rescuing him.”
She shook her head.
“Apparently the job doesn’t end just because you’re sixty-two.”
Part 8 — The Life I Built for Chloe and Me
Months later, Barbara sat across from me at my little kitchen table.
Chloe slept nearby.
My apartment wasn’t impressive.
There were baby blankets draped over chairs.
Bottles drying beside the sink.
Bills clipped together near the refrigerator.
Laundry waiting to be folded.
Toys beginning to appear in every corner.
It was small.
Messy.
Exhausting.
And mine.
Every bill in that apartment belonged to me.
Every decision was mine.
Every dollar in my account was under my control.
Nobody could empty it and then tell me I should be grateful for my independence.
Nobody could abandon me and redefine abandonment as freedom.
Barbara reached down and picked up one of Chloe’s tiny socks from the floor.
