On her daughter’s fifth birthday, Chanel opens the door expecting friends and finds the one woman who swore she’d never return. What follows unravels everything she thought she knew about her family, her marriage, and the child she loves beyond words…
The frosting was lopsided, but Evelyn clapped her hands like it was the best thing she’d ever seen.
“It’s lovely, Mommy!” she exclaimed, bouncing on her toes. “Can I put the sprinkles on now?”
“Only if you promise not to eat half of them first, buttercup,” I said, already knowing I’d let her do so anyway.
“Promise,” she said, grinning from ear to ear.
Tara leaned against the doorway, a roll of tape dangling from her wrist and a banner draped over her arm.
“That’s what birthdays are for,” I said, laughing.
Tara had been with me through everything — from college, through my miscarriages, the waiting list, and the day we met Evelyn.
She wasn’t just my best friend; she was Evelyn’s honorary aunt. She lived three streets over and never knocked when she came over.
She hung the sign while Norton, my husband, helped Evelyn arrange her stuffed animals.
“You’re going to give your speech first,” she told her elephant. “Then Bear-Bear, then Duck.”
“Don’t forget Bunny,” my husband said.
He ruffled Evelyn’s curls, and she beamed at him, scrunching her nose.
“Bunny’s shy,” Evelyn whispered, tucking the plush against her side.
I watched them from the kitchen and felt something tug behind my ribs — the kind of tug you only get when you know what it costs to feel safe.
But it hadn’t always been this full; not in our house, and definitely not in our hearts.
This time, five years ago, I was in a hospital bed for the third time in two years, bleeding into silence while Norton held my hand and told me it was okay to stop trying.
“We don’t need a baby to be whole, Chanel. It’s going to take some time for us to find our footing… but we’ll be just fine.
I adore you for you.”
We grieved quietly, until the silence hardened. I stopped setting reminders for my cycle. Norton stopped asking about doctor visits.
And we stopped talking about the nursery we’d once painted a soft blue.
Then came Evelyn.
She was 18 months old and new to the system. She had no medical file, only a folded note:
“We can’t handle a special-needs baby. Please, find her a better family.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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