My mom sent a text saying, “Skip my birthday. We need a break from your kid.” I didn’t argue. I simply turned around and took my baby back home. Two weeks later, when they found out we spent Thanksgiving at a private lodge with friends who flew us out, my mom’s first message was, “Why didn’t you tell us you were going there?” I got angry and replied.

I didn’t praise him like he wanted a gold star. I simply said, “Good.”

That spring, we established a routine.

Once a month, Dad came to Seattle for a weekend. He stayed at a hotel and visited during the day. He did groceries with me. He learned how to soothe Maisie when she fussed. He rocked her with his big hands and whispered, “Easy, little bird.”

Mom didn’t come at first. She seemed afraid I’d reject her. Or maybe she was afraid she’d fail.

In April, she asked—asked—if she could visit for a day.

“Yes,” I said. “But you stay in a hotel. And you follow the rules.”

She agreed immediately.

When she arrived, she didn’t reach for Maisie right away. She sat on my couch and watched her like she was trying to learn her. Like she was studying the weight of what she’d almost thrown away.