It’s quiet around the loft, though, now that Chase’s job has started to pick up again. He’s having to attend meetings at the Spirit Ridge with clients from other resorts, and it’s not like I have a job to go to. Morris signed me off work for a month the same day he placed Will at the loft.

“We’re employing you as a foster parent now, Alex. That’s your job. And word to the wise, you might find it’s more full-time than ever.”

“What about my caseload?” I asked, letting his warning roll off me.

“Minerva or the other protection workers will cover it.”

I made him promise he’d oversee the decisions Minerva made. Since then, I’ve thrown myself wholeheartedly into the important job of being a parent. Day and night, it never stops—as it shouldn’t, if you’re doing it properly. There’s so much cleaning to do—onesies, bottles, muslin cloths — and my knuckles are raw from all the water and soap. I get two hours’ sleep in a row through the nights, but I’m certain the deprivation won’t last forever. Will is a fussy baby—hungry, fitful, sometimes inconsolable—and Chase, who hovers a foot behind me and Will through most of the days, is noticeably absent during the night shift.

We’re a tight-knit unit, Will and me. I’ve relocated to the living room. My bed is now exactly where Ruth’s was, Will’s bassinet right next to the coffee table. I spend nights with him, pacing the room, staring out the window into the night sky. It’s a privilege, motherhood. I’ve earned it.

Morris comes by every week with more breastmilk he’s collected from Ruth, as all good social workers should with a newborn baby they’ve removed. It’s a steady conveyer-belt supply that I throw away as soon as he leaves. I can’t even bear the smell of it as I pour it down the drain.

“How are we feeling about visits?” Morris asks me each time he comes over, and this week is no different. He’s sitting on the couch, flanked by tiny socks and dirty laundry, drinking lukewarm tea while I stand with Will in my arms. “The baby’s three weeks old now. Are we thinking we’re ready to set something up with Mum yet?”

I wish he’d stop asking. And he can stop saying “we” like there’s some kind of team. Or referring to Ruth as a mother.

“Morris, visits are not a good idea. You know what my sister is like. You’ve met her. She hasn’t changed all of a sudden.”

“No, but she’s … she appears to be doing quite well. You know, with the right supports in place. And protocol states that birth mums are allowed access to—”