“You have poisoned her against her own family.”
Mr. Gideon looked at her like she was a difficult paragraph in a badly written book.
“No, madam,” he said. “You did that yourself.”
I took the baby from Elowen before anyone could say another word.
He was heavier than I expected.
Warm.
Sticky-faced.
Innocent.
He rested his cheek on my shoulder like he had known me forever.
That nearly broke me.
I carried him to the kitchen.
“Wren,” I said gently, “do you want some toast?”
She looked at her mother first.
Then at me.
“Can I have water?” she asked.
Her voice was tiny.
That nearly broke me too.
I made toast.
I poured water.
I found applesauce in the pantry and opened a jar.
Mr. Gideon brought down two old quilts from the hall closet and muttered the entire time about people who stored children like luggage.
Maura sat at the kitchen table and started calling shelters, cousins, old coworkers, anyone she could think of.
