Chapter 93 - A Walk Without a Photograph
Elena and I went to the waterfront because my doctor had suggested gentle walking and because she had decided I needed a conversation that wasn't about a trust.
The East River moved under a silver sky. A father carried a sleeping toddler against his shoulder while a woman folded a stroller with the concentration of an engineer. I watched them for too long.
“You're thinking about Adrian,” Elena said.
“I'm thinking about how he'll look holding the baby.”
“That's not a crime.”
“It feels dangerous.”
She stopped by the railing. “Loving an idea of someone isn't the same as trusting the person they've been.”
“I know.”
“Then you can imagine one sweet moment without signing away the rest of your life.”
The simplicity of that answer surprised me. I had spent months evaluating every soft feeling as if it were a security breach.
We walked past the ferry terminal, then sat on a bench where a gull had claimed the far end. Elena asked whether I'd decided on a name. I told her I had a private list and refused to share it.
“I love that you're making me suffer like a normal friend,” she said.
We laughed. Then my phone rang.
It was Dorothy. She asked whether Leo could send me a voice note. Hannah had approved a short message after making sure he understood I might not answer immediately.
I nodded before remembering Dorothy couldn't see me. “Yes, please.”
A moment later a recording arrived. Leo explained that he had built a train station out of shoeboxes and that the dinosaur now had a blue hat because red hats made him “too fast.” He ended with a shy, careful question.
“Does your baby like trains?”
I stared at the water.
Elena waited beside me without looking at my screen.
I recorded a reply. “We don't know yet. Babies can't tell us their favorite things before they're born. But when the baby is older, you can show us your station if you want.”
I played it back before sending. I wanted to make sure I hadn't promised a family arrangement or a visit that the lawyers, Leo's guardian, and I hadn't discussed. It sounded like an invitation to a future conversation, nothing more.
Dorothy sent a thank-you note ten minutes later. Leo liked the word older. He had immediately asked how long that would take.
I told Elena, and she smiled.
May you like
“Kids,” she said. “Always turning an existential crisis into a calendar question.”
For the rest of the walk we talked about winter coats, my stubbornly small kitchen, and whether a baby needed twelve blankets. We took no pictures. I went home feeling as though I'd had a day that belonged to me.
