That afternoon, she brought down the white box tied with pink ribbon.
That was when Sarah finally cried.
She received primary custody.
By the twins' first birthday, our house had learned their rhythm. Lily laughed before trouble. Grace watched first, then copied her sister. Sarah baked two small cakes and burned the first batch. I frosted the second while she cleaned icing from both girls' hair and laughed without checking the locks every ten minutes.
Ryan arrived for his supervised hour with books instead of toys.
That afternoon, she brought down the white box tied with pink ribbon. We spread the ultrasound pictures across the table. Beside them, she placed a new photograph: Lily and Grace sitting between us, wrapped in the blankets I had made before they were born.
Ryan arrived for his supervised hour with books instead of toys.
I was the approved supervisor, so I stayed in the room and folded laundry by the window while he sat on the rug and read the same page three times because Lily kept grabbing the corner. Grace crawled into his lap. Sarah watched from the doorway.
Later, she carried Lily and Grace into the nursery beneath the clouds.
When the hour ended, Ryan stood, set the book down, and asked what time next week's exchange had been scheduled for.
Once, he had planned to take the girls without asking. Now he had to ask when he was allowed to return.
Sarah answered him herself. He nodded once and left.
Later, she carried Lily and Grace into the nursery beneath the clouds. One twin rested against each shoulder. The late light had turned the walls pale blue.
"They don't remind me of him anymore."
"They don't remind me of him anymore," she said.
I looked up at the painted sky.
"What do they remind you of?"
She shifted Grace higher and glanced toward the crib.
"That storms can pass without taking the whole sky."
