“I will,” he said with conviction.
“We’ll see,” I replied, because words didn’t mean much to me anymore.
Building Something New From the Wreckage
I brought my daughter home five days after she was born, though not to the apartment I’d shared with Ethan during our marriage. That place held too many memories, too many ghosts of arguments and disappointments.
Instead, I went to the small two-bedroom apartment I’d rented in Rogers Park after the divorce was finalized. It wasn’t fancy or spacious or in the trendy neighborhood we’d lived in before. But it was mine. It was safe. It was a fresh start.
Ethan helped carry my bags up the stairs, struggling with the weight but refusing to let me help. He set up the secondhand bassinet I’d bought, assembling it carefully and checking twice to make sure it was stable. He made sure I had groceries and diapers and formula and everything I might need in those first overwhelming days at home.
Then he left, because that’s what we’d agreed on. Because we weren’t together. We weren’t a couple trying to make things work. We were two people learning to co-parent a child neither of us had been adequately prepared for.
He called every day to check on her, asking specific questions about feedings and sleep and whether she seemed healthy. He came over three times a week to help with practical things—changing diapers, doing dishes, holding her so I could take a shower or nap or just have ten minutes where I wasn’t responsible for keeping another human alive.
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