Chapter 11
Naomi stood in her bedroom the next morning, her arms folded as she took in the unfamiliar shapes now filling the space. A bassinet. A changing table. A cardboard box labeled Emergency Infant Supplies sitting on the floor beside the dresser.
It didn’t seem real yet.
Social services had arrived earlier than she’d expected. They’d done a quick walkthrough and had asked a handful of questions. The process had been relatively painless.
Now she’d signed the paperwork, nodded at the explanations, agreed when it was suggested that social services transport the baby—although part of her wished she’d gone to the hospital herself.
She wished she’d had the chance to sit with Sissy one last time.
To promise out loud that she’d protect Sissy’s daughter.
That her baby wouldn’t disappear into the system.
But the choice had been made.
The dog, who’d hardly left her side since she got back last night, sat beside her.
She leaned down and rubbed his head. “I really need to give you a name, don’t I, good boy?”
She tried a few. None of them fit.
Maybe she shouldn’t name him at all—shouldn’t get too attached. Both he and the baby weren’t permanent. She’d be wise to remember that.
“In the meantime, I’ll just call you Good Boy. Does that work?”
His tongue came out in a look of contentment.
Good Boy it was. For now.
Her mom appeared in the doorway with a mug of coffee. “You okay?”
“I think so.”
“You don’t have to know what you’re doing yet,” Mom said. “None of us did the first time.”
“Thanks,” she murmured.
In the kitchen a few minutes later, Caleb and Millie talked in low tones while Biscuit stayed close to Millie’s feet. Naomi’s eyes swept the room.
Micah wasn’t here.
Of course he wasn’t. Why would he be? Why did she feel disappointed?
Just then, Caleb’s phone buzzed. “Someone’s at the gate.”
Her heart pounded. That would be Karen with the baby.
Naomi drew in a slow breath.
There was no turning back now.
Through the side window, Naomi watched a white county vehicle pull to a stop—followed closely by Micah’s SUV.
Relief moved through her before she could stop it.
She tugged the door open. Micah wore his uniform, and the morning light caught the stubble along his jaw. Their eyes met briefly, and something in her chest did something she didn’t want to examine.
Then she saw the carrier.
Karen held it against her forearm, one hand curved protectively beneath it. The little one inside was nestled in pale yellow blankets—a wisp of dark hair, pink skin, one tiny fist curled against the edge of the blanket like she was holding on to something, even in sleep.
Naomi’s throat went dry.
“Come in,” she managed. “Please.”
Good Boy moved with her, nose lifting curiously as Karen crossed the threshold. Micah followed, one hand resting briefly on the doorframe as he passed—not touching her, just close. She felt it anyway.
In the living room, Karen set the carrier on the sofa and knelt beside it. “I’ll take her out for you. Then I’d like you to hold her.”
Naomi nodded.
Karen lifted the baby free in one smooth motion and held her out. “Here she is.”
Naomi’s arms came up before she thought about it—muscle memory from instincts she didn’t know she had.
As the baby settled against her chest, her breath caught.
The child was warm. Impossibly warm, and light, and alive, her tiny heartbeat pulsing against Naomi’s hand. The small mouth pursed and relaxed, pursed and relaxed, chasing something in sleep.
Something cracked open in Naomi’s chest. Not pain or fear. Something softer—the kind of ache that hope left behind when you’d spent too long without it.
Good Boy lifted his head from the hearth rug and watched them, tail sweeping the floor in a slow, steady arc.
“Sissy never picked a name,” Karen said.
Naomi looked down at the baby. At the tiny face, peaceful and unhurried, completely unaware of the storm that had brought her here. A child who hadn’t chosen any of this—not the father, not the mother, not the broken world that had handed her over before she was even a week old.
The word materialized without effort, like it had been waiting just beneath the surface all along.
“Grace,” Naomi murmured. “I’m going to call her Grace.”
Karen looked up. “Grace?”
“That’s what this is, isn’t it? For her. For all of us.” Naomi’s voice came out quiet but steady. “Being here. Being safe. Having someone. That’s grace.”
Karen was quiet a moment. Then she nodded, her expression warming. “I like it.”
Grace let out the smallest sound—barely a sigh—and curled closer.
While Karen went through the paperwork, the family settled around the room. Good Boy pressed his nose against Naomi’s knee, tail wagging once, slow and certain, like he’d already decided where he belonged.
After Naomi signed the last page, Karen gathered her things. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Naomi said. “Really.”
As the room went quiet following Karen’s departure, Naomi looked down at Grace—still warm, still impossibly trusting of a world that had given her no reason to be. A question had been sitting in her chest since last night.
She looked up at Micah and asked the one question she wasn’t sure she wanted answered: “Does Richard know I have her?”