Chapter 2

Maisie was still holding on to Vivian when no one answered her.

Caleb stepped in first, pulling her coat back up over her shoulder. “Of course she isn’t,” he said softly. “Vivian has just been busy lately. She came all this way today because she wanted to see you perform.”

“Will she come next time too?”

Vivian looked past Maisie and met my eyes. She didn’t look away, and she didn’t look triumphant.

What I saw in her face was something she had kept buried for too long—a hunger that made it seem as though she had waited years for this moment, yet was still afraid to reach for it.

“If you want me to,” she said, “I’ll do my best.”

Caleb cut in at once. “It’s time for dinner, Maisie. Nora’s tired too.”

He folded me into that word—tired—the way he had for the past three years. He named my feelings for me. He ended conversations I had never agreed were over.

On the drive home, Maisie fell asleep in the back seat with the white daisies in her arms.

Caleb drove in silence until he said, “Vivian’s situation is complicated. Her divorce has been hard on her. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

I watched the streetlights pass and did not ask what he meant. Some questions only give a liar time to prepare an answer.

That night, I wanted the things he had not had time to arrange.

After we got home, Caleb carried Maisie upstairs.

I stayed in the entryway until I heard her bedroom door close, then went to the storage cabinet at the back of the study.

I kept the adoption papers in a dark blue file box.

Caleb had always said the process was complete and the agency could not share more because the birth mother wanted privacy.

I had taken that as kindness.

The box held the original placement notice, the home-study reports, the temporary placement agreement, and the promise Caleb and I had signed together.

It did not contain a final adoption order.

I spread every page across the carpet until I found a line in small print at the bottom of the temporary agreement.

The placement may proceed to final adoption only after both biological parents complete the required relinquishment process.

I remembered signing that paper. I had just come home from a follow-up appointment after my surgery. The nurse had said my recovery was going well. Then the doctor told me I would never be able to carry a child.

That afternoon, Caleb held my hand and told me we would have a family of our own.

All he had given me, from the beginning, was something temporary.

The next morning, I waited for the agency to open and called its records department. The woman on the line verified my name and case number, then fell quiet for a few seconds.

“Mrs. Bell,” she said, “this case never reached final adoption. It was closed eight years ago.”

My grip tightened around the phone. “Why?”

“The biological father never submitted his final consent. Without it, we could not move forward.”

Outside the window, Maisie was waiting for Caleb to take her to school. She saw me through the glass and waved, smiling the same bright smile she had worn onstage the day before.

I pulled the curtain halfway closed.

“And the birth mother?” I asked. “Did she ever contact the agency again?”

The woman searched through the file, and when she spoke again, her voice had grown more careful.

“She continued receiving the child’s annual medical and school updates. In our records, she was not listed as an anonymous contact.”

She paused.

“The name on file is Vivian Cole.”