ADVERTISEMENT
So did Mrs. Keller.
So did the hospital chart.
By the time Mia was discharged, she had a police report number written on a folded sheet of paper, a packet from the hospital social worker, and instructions to follow up with her doctor within twenty-four hours.
She did not go home alone.
Mrs. Keller drove her.
A patrol car was parked near the curb when they arrived.
The house looked the same from the outside.
The flag still moved beside the porch.
The mailbox still leaned slightly from when Evan had backed into it the year before.
The nursery still smelled faintly of lavender and sawdust.
But the crib was gone.
The empty space hit Mia harder than she expected.
Mrs. Keller stood behind her, quiet.
Mia walked to the rocking chair and touched the place where her mother’s blanket had been.
Then she looked up at the mobile hanging over nothing.
She had thought the crib was the promise.
It was not.
The promise was what she chose next.
Over the following days, everything became paperwork.
Medical notes.
ADVERTISEMENT
