My parents kicked me out one day after my C-section—with my newborn in my arms. Then my husband pulled up, looked at my face, and made one phone call that changed everything.

Meanwhile, life with Paige expanded in all the ordinary miraculous directions that trauma cannot fully contaminate. Her daughter’s cheeks rounded into softness that invited kisses from every angle. Her sleepy newborn sounds developed into opinions. She began tracking faces, then smiling, then laughing at absurd things like the ceiling fan or Mitchell pretending the washcloth was a tiny ghost. Her fingers learned to grip hair with shocking strength. The first time she tugged a fistful from Wendy’s scalp, Wendy flinched so violently she had to hand the baby to Mitchell and go cry in the bathroom.

Shame flooded her. Not because Paige had hurt her—babies have no malice—but because the body remembers before the mind can intervene.

When Wendy came back out, Mitchell was walking Paige around the living room and humming some improvised nonsense song. He looked at Wendy and did not pretend not to know.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“I hate that it’s still in me.”