Chapter 25
Atlas
It’s almost eight a.m. and the house smells like lemon polish and panic.
Maddie is a veritable storm. The vacuum whines like a jet engine as she drags it over the living room rug—again—laying perfect parallel lines like she’s mowing a golf course before the Masters.
She’s already wiped the counters twice, Windex’d the patio doors, and, God help us, alphabetized Grayce’s board books by title.
The only other sound is Grayce in her high chair banging a silicone spoon on the tray like a band director keeping time.
“Pretty sure that rug’s the cleanest thing in Pennsylvania,” I say as I sip on my second cup of coffee. “We could perform surgery on it.”
Maddie doesn’t look up, just executes a brutal ninety-degree turn with the vacuum. “It’s shedding.”
“It’s wool,” I say, as gently as possible, because I like my life. “It does that.”
She kills the vacuum, yanks the cord out of the wall, and glares at me. Her cheeks are flushed, hair yanked into a tiny topknot that’s already losing to gravity but fuck if it doesn’t look cute.
“Do you have any idea how many home visits I’ve done? How many houses I’ve walked into with sticky floors, suspicious smells, and piles of laundry growing legs? You know what it says to an evaluator? It says ‘We can’t manage our lives.’”
And there it is—the reason why Maddie is in a tizzy. We have our evaluation in mere minutes so the court can ensure we’re fit enough to adopt Grayce, and Maddie’s past traumas and experiences are causing her to doubt herself.
“Pretty sure the social worker isn’t going to ask the rug to recite the guardianship order,” I tease, hoping to break the negative vibe.
“Atlas.” One word, loaded. She’s not amused.
Maddie starts for the toy basket like she’s going to hide all the blocks that Grayce has gnawed on with her tiny teeth.
I put my mug down and meet her halfway.
“Hey.” I catch her hand. It’s cool and damp from wiping steel and glass and her pulse races beneath my thumb. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” she snaps, which is true if we’re counting shallow, rapid inhales that wouldn’t keep a hamster alive.
I tug, just enough to bring her into me. If there’s anything that can get her to refocus, it’s for me to push her boundaries.
She resists for a heartbeat—pride, habit, fear, all those careful walls—but then I feel it.
The small shudder as her shoulders drop and I’m almost giddy when her forehead tips into my chest. I hold my breath when her fingers curl into my T-shirt like she’s anchoring herself, and that is a huge admission by Maddie.
She’s saying she likes the strength—not physical, but emotional—that I can give her.
I don’t hesitate. I wrap my arms around her, her coconut shampoo banishing the overwhelming smell of lemon polish. Grayce bangs her spoon and shrieks “DA!” like a referee announcing a goal, and that even draws a chuckle out of Maddie.
“You’re solid,” I murmur into Maddie’s hair. “We’re solid. She’s going to see what I see every day.”
“Not fair,” she manages, voice muffled in my shirt.
“What’s not fair?”
“That you can do that.” She exhales, the breath hot through cotton. “Just press some secret off button on my brain.”
“New talent. Picked it up between drills.” I press my mouth to the crown of her head before my common sense can stop me, a kiss so quick it could be mistaken for an accident. She goes still, and I wait for the retreat. Instead, her body softens a notch more against mine.
Then the doorbell rings.
Maddie jerks back like I’ve shocked her, palms smoothing her flyaway hairs. Her eyes scan the kitchen, and I can almost hear her mental checklist.
Stove off.
Counters immaculate.
Colorful island bowl with apples all polished to a bright sheen.
She straightens the tiny knitted hockey-sticks blanket over the back of the couch so the pattern is centered and then squares her shoulders.
“Ready?” I ask.
“No,” she says, and moves to the front door anyway.
The woman on our porch looks like she could audit a serial killer into better behavior.
Late-fifties, sharp suit the color of thunderclouds, sensible flats.
Hair in a bun so tight her eyes are slightly slanted.
Reading glasses on the lower third of her nose and lips pressed together.
She has a clipboard tucked under one arm like it’s a weapon.
“Ms. Porter,” Maddie says, bright and professional and a little too high in pitch. “Please, come in.”
Porter scans the entryway as she steps inside, and Maddie watches her like a hawk, taking in what might catch the woman’s notice. I grimace as I see a stray baby sock tucked between two couch cushions and surreptitiously manage to pocket it without being seen.
Grayce makes a delighted chirp and throws her spoon, which bounces off the tray, hits the tile, and skitters under the oven.
Porter clicks her pen. “Residence verified,” she says out loud, scribbling notes on the clipboard. “Two bedrooms?”
“Three,” Maddie replies. “I can show—”
“Later.” Porter peers at me over the glasses like a stern librarian. “You are Mr. Karolak.”
“Atlas,” I say, offering a hand. She looks at it like it’s optional.
Okay. Cool.
“And Ms. St. James.” Porter glances at Maddie. “You indicated prior experience in child welfare.”
“Yes,” Maddie says, relief sparking as she’s found her opening to connect with this woman. “Casework for—”
Porter raises a palm. “Noted.” She flips a page after licking her finger for traction. “We’ll begin with the child’s living environment.”
She moves slowly, walking the downstairs layout.
She notes the outlet covers, cabinet locks, the gate at the bottom of the stairs.
She squints at the bookshelf like misalphabetized board books might prove us unfit parents.
She takes in the framed photo of Gray at the beach with Grayce on his shoulders and gives nothing back to us.
I attempt charm. “Do you give extra credit for parallel vacuum lines?”
Maddie winces, but Ms. Porter offers only more pen scratches. I’m wondering if lame humor is a disqualifier.
The social worker heads up the stairs with Maddie following, nervously wringing her hands. I stay behind with Grayce, taking the time to whisper about the stern woman behind her back as I wipe the baby clean of oatmeal.
By the time they’re back downstairs, I’m sitting on the couch with Grayce on the floor, playing with her blocks.
Maddie takes a seat beside me and Porter perches on the edge of an armchair, staring at us over the rim of her glasses.
I swallow hard and sweat dampens the back of my neck.
“Legal documents are in order,” she says. “Guardianship fully executed prior to Mr. Donovan’s passing. I have the duly notarized consent to adoption, but as you know, that’s not a guarantee the court will approve you. My task is to validate suitability and make a recommendation to the judge.”
Her pen hovers, expectant. I’m starting to feel some of the panic that had Maddie running around like a lunatic. Grayce discovers she can make one of her teething rings squeak by vigorously running her bottom teeth over it.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
“Mr. Karolak,” Porter begins, and my eyes snap over to her. “Your employment requires travel approximately fifty percent of your season.”
“Yes,” I say. “Road trips from October through April, more if we go into the playoffs. Never more than five days at a time though.”
“How do you propose to provide adequate day-to-day care during those absences?”
She says adequate like a line we’ll fail to reach. The response forms in my mouth—about schedules and FaceTime and the way I’ve learned to prep bottles at two a.m. in the dark without waking the baby—but Maddie beats me to it.
“We share responsibilities,” she says, her voice belying a tiny nervous stammer. “When Atlas is home, he is fully engaged—mornings, baths, bedtime. When he’s away, I take point, and we maintain routines. We have backup support if needed.” Her chin lifts a fraction. “Consistency is our priority.”
Porter’s eyes remain flat. “Backup support?”
“Team spouses and partners,” I say, “plus a vetted babysitter. Also, my off-season is a lot of at-home time. I’ll be Grayce’s primary daytime caretaker then.”
Porter makes a note, then another note.
So many notes.
I resist the urge to lean over and see if she’s writing an actual report or just “Man wore snug T-shirt” fifty times.
She turns a page. “Describe the child’s daily routine,” she says. “Be precise.”
Maddie answers like she’s briefing a command post. “Up at six thirty to seven. Diaper, play, breakfast around eight—we rotate oatmeal, scrambled eggs, yogurt and her formula. She has a short nap around nine thirty, although she’s not seeming to need that as much, which I believe is age appropriate.
We take an outdoor walk or play in the park if the weather cooperates.
Lunch at noon. Free play. Developmental exercises—stacking, pull-to-stand, books.
Second nap at two thirty. Dinner at five thirty.
Bath. Books. Asleep by seven thirty if the gods are kind. ”
“And when Mr. Karolak is home?” Porter asks.
“We do it together,” I say. “We both read to her every night. I’ll handle bathing if Maddie cooks, or we swap. I’m there for bedtime most nights I’m in town.”
Porter’s pen clicks quietly. She moves on without praise.
“Discipline philosophy?” she asks.
What the fuck?
“She’s a baby,” I say, before I can temper it. “What’s to discipline?”
Maddie places a steadying hand on my knee, her touch an electrical ground. “We use positive reinforcement, routine and clear limits as appropriate for her developmental stage.”
Ooh… that’s a good answer.
“Financial stability,” Porter continues. “Savings, insurance, provision for the child if either of you is incapacitated.”
“She has a moderate trust from her father, and I’ve started another that will vest on adoption. We have life insurance policies, of course.”
“Do you have a doctor for her yet?” Porter asks without looking up from her clipboard.