By the time we got home, I was worn down to nothing. No crib. No diapers stacked neatly. No plan.
Just me. And him.
I sat on the kitchen floor because I didn’t know where else to go. Leaned back against the wall, still wearing my leather jacket, and held him against my chest.
He didn’t stop right away. It came in waves—loud cries, then softer ones, then those shaky little breaths babies take when they’re running out of energy.
And then… nothing.
Silence.
He fell asleep like he had found something he’d been looking for.
That was the first time I understood—this wasn’t about me being ready.
It was about me being there.
The inspections started two weeks later.
The caseworker—her name was Carol Jennings—had a way of walking into a room like she already knew what she was going to find. Clipboard in hand, pen ready, eyes scanning everything like she was assembling a case.
