Three months after the shower, on a bright morning in Boston, I sat at the kitchen island drinking coffee while chaos moved around me in its usual formation.
Leo was attempting to feed a banana slice to his stuffed dinosaur.
Maya stood on a step stool singing a song composed entirely of the word “No,” with variations in pitch.
Sam had fallen asleep in his high chair with syrup on his cheek.
In the living room, Noah and Grace were on a playmat doing tummy time with the emotional commitment of people forced into unpaid labor.
Alexander stood at the sink washing bottles in surgical silence, the same intense focus he brought to spinal repair now applied to formula residue.
My phone buzzed.
Chloe.
Mom is still furious. She told the bridge club you used a surrogate and that Alexander is actually an actor you hired. Dad moved into the guest room permanently.
I smiled.
Let her talk, I typed. Fiction is the only place she has any power left.
