So I packed away my grief, and my betrayed memories, and I got to work. I bought books on babies and had them overnighted to me. I found checklists on the internet and printed them out until I had a small tree’s worth of paperwork.

I went shopping. I wasn’t rich by any means—and I expected I’d be even less so with a baby around—so I tried to buy what I could secondhand, hitting up thrift stores and online marketplaces to find things. Except for a car seat. I bought a state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line car seat.

A week later, Janette Fischer returned to my house to conduct a ‘home study,’ which I’d prepared for like I did any other test: by panicking until I was a basket case. I’d put child safety locks on literally every single door. I’d boxed up all the small things I thought a baby could put in its mouth, even if I may have gone a little overboard.

I’d cried the whole time as I boxed up Mom’s things. This whole thing felt unfair to her. Like somehow, Dad’s memory got to live on, but she’d be the burned party forever. That hurt. But I also knew what Mom would’ve done in my situation, so it helped as I packed her things away and put them in the garage.

When Janette arrived, the place looked like Alcatraz, but at least it was as baby-proof as I could get it. She walked through the house, making notes on her clipboard, while I sat on the couch and fretted.

In my head, I made more plans, more lists. I’d found a place online that would sell bulk diapers, but I thought maybe I should get reusable ones. Fuck, I’d just get a mixture of both because who had time to wash dirty diapers all the time when they were learning to take care of another human being?

Janette returned, giving me a huge, reassuring smile. Thank god.

“You’ve done a wonderful job in the last week, Nova. It must have been hard work.”

You could tell she worked with children, because she had that gentle, encouraging tone of voice that may have been condescending if I’d been any less needy for reassurance.

“Thank you. I’m cramming every baby book under the sun in preparation.”

She gave me a tight smile. “There’s been a development that I think you should know about. A contesting petition has been filed for baby Huey’s adoption.”

I reared back. “What? I thought I was his only living relative.”

Janette nodded. “You are, but Miss Madison—Huey’s mother—was a foster child and had maintained some relationships with her previous foster siblings. These siblings wish to file for adoption.”

“Will they get it?”