he’d moved into a rented house with a woman named Amber and left me alone in the one we’d built together, with Jennifer’s door shut tight at the end of the hall like a held breath. We were still married on paper. I just never found the energy to sign the rest of it away.
And now there was a baby on my kitchen table, wearing my daughter’s jacket like it was the only thing in the world that still belonged to her.
PART 2 — The Note
I set the basket down and made myself move before I could think too hard about it.
There was a diaper bag tucked under the blanket. Formula, two sleepers folded with more care than I expected, a stack of newborn wipes. Whoever had left her hadn’t panicked and run. This had been planned, thought through, arranged the way you arrange something you can’t
bring yourself to keep but refuse to abandon carelessly.
The baby watched me the entire time, solemn as a tiny judge weighing evidence.
I reached out and touched the jacket again, just to be sure my hands weren’t lying to me. The left cuff was still frayed in the exact spot Jennifer used to chew when she was anxious, a habit I’d nagged her out of a hundred times and never once succeeded.
My fingers found the pocket before my brain caught up to what I was doing.
Paper.
My pulse was so loud in my own ears that the kitchen seemed to tilt. I unfolded the note slowly, smoothing the creases flat with both hands, because some part of me needed one more second before I let myself read it.
Jodi,
My name is Andy. I know this is a terrible way to do this, but I don’t know
