The next morning, I poured my coffee without turning on the radio and opened the drawer where I kept my receipts. Nolan was born in a Michigan winter—so bitter the pipes froze the morning I brought him home. Gerald, my husband, was three states away driving freight and wouldn’t be back for nine days. I lay awake that first night listening to Nolan breathe, my fingers aching from warming bottles under running water. I did it all—feedings, rashes, night fevers—alone, without complaint. That’s just what you did. I always thought I’d go back to school. Nursing had been the dream once, back when I believed in timelines. But part‑time shifts turned into full‑time responsibilities. Bills mounted. Gerald’s back gave out. Dreams shrink quietly when there isn’t room for them.

Years later, when Nolan brought Ivette home, I hoped for something gentle. She was polished and efficient, the kind of woman who didn’t like surprises or sentiment. She smiled tight and called me Delora instead of Mom. I told myself it didn’t matter—everyone shows love differently—but it chipped away, little by little. The way she flinched when I suggested cloth diapers. Her laugh when I brought over homemade baby food.

“That’s sweet,” she’d say, sliding it aside for something organic in a jar.