Mitchell, to his credit, never asked her to be sensible before she was ready. He took late-night shifts when he had work the next morning. He learned how to swaddle faster than she could. He sat on the bathroom floor while she showered because standing too long made her dizzy and she was ashamed of how afraid she felt alone with the baby even for ten minutes. He never called the fear irrational. He simply accounted for it.
One evening, three weeks after the porch, he came home with takeout, a folder, and a question.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Wendy was sitting on the couch in one of his old T-shirts, hair unwashed, Paige asleep against her shoulder. “What do you mean?”
He set the takeout down. “Not what’s easiest. Not what your relatives will call fair. Not what avoids conflict. What do you want.”
She almost said I don’t know. That was the honest automatic answer. Wanting had never been safe in her childhood. Wants were ammunition. Needs were proof of selfishness. She had gotten good at anticipating everyone else so she would not have to feel the blankness of her own desires.
But Mitchell waited.
“I want to stop being afraid they’ll show up,” she said finally.