The baby remained in the hospital a little longer than expected because of feeding issues and because the county had to determine immediate guardianship while Chloe stabilized physically and psychologically. Jenna wanted to help but admitted she had no idea how to support a newborn and a traumatized teenage daughter simultaneously. Julia, who seemed to collect impossible situations the way some people collect houseplants, started calling Ethan occasionally with practical questions: Could Ellie’s drawings be passed on? Would Ethan be willing to testify informally to Chloe’s state after the reunion? Would Ranger be all right staying another two weeks while the Bennett household reorganized?
Ethan kept saying yes to small things.
Small things accumulate. That is one of adulthood’s least glamorous truths. By November, Ethan knew the NICU waiting-room coffee quality, the route to the farmhouse, the smell of Ranger’s coat after rain, and the exact way Ellie tiptoed when she wanted to peek into the guest room where the foster dog slept. He also knew that Hope had a strong grip, a stubborn appetite once warmed, and a tiny crease beside her mouth that deepened when she slept.
He had not meant to know any of that.
Grief had taught Ethan to be wary of loving anything too quickly. Yet there he was one gray Thursday, standing in the hospital nursery behind Chloe while she held Hope against her chest for the first long skin-to-skin session the nurses believed she could handle, and feeling his own heart tighten around a future that did not technically belong to him. Chloe’s shoulders were rigid at first, then slowly loosened as the baby settled.
“I thought she’d hate me,” Chloe said without looking away from Hope.
“Babies don’t come with moral spreadsheets,” Ethan replied.
Chloe gave a watery laugh. “You talk like somebody’s dad.”
“I am somebody’s dad.”