This isn’t how I planned to have a kid. I thought I’d get married someday and have a hell of a good time trying to get my wife pregnant and then taking care of her when she was expecting. But Avery is here now, and she’s mine. With Mallory gone, I have to find a way to be everything she needs.
My mom’s gonna flip her shit. She’s been begging me for a grandchild since I turned thirty. Even though she lives in California, I know she’d be on the first plane to Chicago when I tell her she’s a grandma, but she’s in the middle of a five-month tour of Europe and Asia. Still, it’ll feel good to make that call to her.
I can’t sit for long. I’m too nervous. After I get up from the couch, I walk back to my bedroom and put on a fresh T-shirt, stopping to check my hair in the bathroom mirror.
Avery doesn’t know good hair from bad hair, I suppose, but I still want to make a good first impression.
There’s a soft knock on my door and my pulse kicks up. She’s a couple minutes early, shockingly. I was worried Winter wouldn’t show up at all, even though her attorney told mine she’d be here.
As soon as I open the door, my excitement fades. Winter looks like hell. Her eyes are red and puffy, the dark circles beneath them highlighting her pale complexion. The fiery pistol I met the other day at my lawyer’s office is gone; in her place is a defeated, heartbroken woman.
I didn’t do this to break her. Avery’s my daughter, and she belongs with me. But I can’t help feeling bad for Winter anyway.
“Hey, come on in,” I say, reaching for the car seat carrier.
She holds on for an extra second before releasing the carrier. I close the door behind her and set the carrier down on the floor.
Avery is looking up at me, her eyes bright. I crouch down, swallowing hard against the lump of emotion in my throat. This perfect little girl is my daughter. We just met, and I’d already walk through fire for her.
“I’ll get her out,” Winter says, her voice nasally from crying.
My gut twists with both tense excitement and sympathy as she bends down and unfastens the seat’s straps, then slides her hands behind Avery to pick her up.
“You have to support her head,” she tells me, her bloodshot green eyes wide and serious. “All the time. And there’s a soft spot on it that hasn’t grown closed yet. Be gentle.”
I nod and hold my hands out, eager to hold my daughter. Winter passes her to me, easing her head against my bicep. Avery wiggles and makes a cooing sound, her eyes bright and alert.
I can’t help it—a couple tears slide down my cheeks. This moment is more emotional than I could have imagined. This is my baby girl, with my blood in her veins. There’s so much I want to tell her, even though she doesn’t understand any of it.
“She’s a really good baby,” Winter says, turning to the diaper bag she left on the floor. “Her bottles and formula are in here. You have to boil the water or buy the special kind—I wrote it all down. And you have to wash the bottles really well. If you buy new ones, boil them and the nipples, too.” She sighs softly. “It’s all in the book. Make sure you read the book.”
“What book?”
She pulls out a worn copy of a book called What To Expect The First Year. “Please read this,” she says, a note of begging in her tone.
“I will.”
“Don’t put her to sleep on her stomach,” she warns. “Never do that.”
“Okay.”
She sorts through stuff in the diaper bag for no reason, and I get the distinct impression she can’t bring herself to look at me. Or at Avery. Or maybe at both of us.
“I wrote my number down inside the cover of the book,” she says. “If you need anything for her, anything, it doesn’t matter what time it is—” Her voice gets thick with emotion and she abruptly stops speaking.
“Winter,” I say softly. “Hey.”
She looks up at me, tears pooled in her eyes.
“You can come see her anytime,” I say.
“R-really?” Her voice breaks.
“Anytime. I wrote down my number for you, too.” I reach into my pocket and pass her a piece of paper with my number on it. “I’ll take good care of her, I promise.”
“It’s just…she’s used to me,” Winter says, looking down at the floor. “I’m the only one who’s been there, from the day she was born. Mal was so sick she couldn’t really even hold her.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. “If I had known…”
Winter wipes her cheeks, reaches into the diaper bag and takes out her wallet.