But that could take months. And then, once we’d proven that Maggie was Brian’s daughter, there would be another court hearing to determine visitation. By the time we had access to our child (yes, I thought of her as ours now), she could be two years old.

I was going to circumvent the whole process. One night last week, as my husband snored after half a bottle of red wine, I had swabbed his cheek. Low had provided Maggie’s sample, and I had mailed them off immediately. The kit said four to six weeks—an eternity—but when the results came back, I would take them to Freya. And we would work everything out.

I couldn’t forget how Freya had admired Low’s family’s dynamics, their honesty and openness. It might have been scandalous in more conservative communities, but two couples co-parenting would not be a big deal in Hawking. Once Freya was presented with irrefutable proof of Maggie’s paternity, she would let us into the child’s life. Maggie could have two homes, two moms who dropped her at school, two dads who alternated soccer and dance practice.

I won’t pretend that I didn’t envision a premier role in our daughter’s life. Brian and I had always wanted to be parents, we were born to raise children. Freya and Max simply weren’t cut out for it. They wouldn’t remember Maggie’s pediatrician and dentist appointments, wouldn’t limit her screen time, or ensure she got enough vitamin D. When she got older, they’d forget to pack her school lunch, ignore her homework assignments, skip parent-teacher interviews. Maggie needed us, too.

It was quiet that afternoon, a Tuesday. I was preparing an ad for the Hawking Exchange—the island’s version of Craigslist—to replace Low. Without help, I would struggle with the tourist-season rush. It would be months before the store got busy, but I knew from experience that it would not be easy to find another shop assistant. There were not a lot of teens like Low Morrison, content with a slower-paced job that was really 80 percent dusting. My thoughts drifted to the odd, taciturn teen who had spent nine months in my employ. I missed her, in a way. Maybe I didn’t miss her. Maybe I was just grateful that she had swabbed Maggie’s cheek for me, had slipped away to deliver the sample, had fed me information about Freya’s lackluster parenting. Low was on my side in this battle. I didn’t know why, but I thanked her for it.