***
By the third year, he had moved in with a woman named Amber and left me in the same quiet house, with Jennifer’s room shut tight at the end of the hall.
We were still married on paper. I just never found the energy to finish what he started.
And now there was a baby in my kitchen wearing my daughter’s jacket.
I set the basket on the table and forced myself to move.
There was a diaper bag, formula, two sleepers, and wipes. Whoever brought her hadn’t dumped her and run. They had planned this.
We were still married on paper.
The baby kept staring, solemn as a little judge.
I touched the jacket again. The left cuff was still frayed where Jennifer used to chew it when she was anxious.
I slipped my hand into the pocket.
Paper. My pulse was so loud in my ears, I felt dizzy. I unfolded the note slowly, smoothing it with both hands.
“Jodi,
My name is Andy. I know this is a terrible way to do this, but I don’t know what else to do.
This is Hope. She’s Jennifer’s daughter. She’s mine too.
“I know this is a terrible way to do this.”
Jen always said that if anything ever happened to her, Hope should be with you. She kept this jacket all these years. She said it was the last piece of home she never gave up.
I’m sorry.
There are things you don’t know. Things Paul kept from you.
I’ll come back and explain everything.
Please take care of Hope.
— Andy”
“There are things you don’t know.”
***
My hands started shaking.
“No,” I whispered. “No, Jen. No.”
After five years, I’d lost the hope that my daughter would ever come back. Now, Hope blinked at me.
I pressed the note to my lips, then forced myself to move. I called the pediatric clinic and said I was bringing in a baby left in my care.
Then I called Paul.
He answered with, “What now, Jodi?”
“Get over here.”
Hope blinked at me.
“Jodi, I have work. I have a life.”
“And I have your granddaughter on my kitchen table.”
“What?” he asked.
“Come now, Paul.”
***
He came twenty minutes later. Amber stayed in the car.
Paul stepped into my kitchen, annoyed and complaining. Then he saw the jacket, and all the color left his face.
He stopped dead. “Where did you get that?”
“I have your granddaughter on my kitchen table.”
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