Chapter 13 Katherine
KATHERINE
The little bundle strapped onto my chest weighs enough to be comforting and just enough to remind me I haven’t slept properly in months.
He’s snug asleep in his carrier as I push the shopping cart down the aisle, one hand steadying the metal handle, the other resting instinctively against his back.
His head fits perfectly beneath my chin, his breath puffing softly against my collarbone.
I’ve learned the rhythm of him—when he’s content, when he’s curious, when he’s about to voice his opinions loudly and without apology.
Right now, he’s content.
A woman passing us slows, her face softening immediately. “Oh my goodness,” she coos, stopping outright. “He’s beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I reply automatically, smiling because it’s easier than not smiling.
Compliments about Julian land differently than compliments about me ever do. They settle deeper and stick to my heart.
“How old?” she asks, peering closer, but respectful enough not to touch.
“Five months.”
She tilts her head, still smiling, but there’s a flicker there—the way people try not to say the wrong thing. “He’s a little small for his age.”
“He was born premature,” I answer evenly. “But he’s doing great now.”
The woman nods quickly, a little flustered. “Oh—well, he looks very healthy and happy.”
“He is,” I nod, because that part is true in a way that feels almost miraculous.
She moves on, and I keep walking, the hum of the grocery store filling the space around us—carts squeaking, music playing faintly overhead, someone laughing two aisles over. These are all normal sounds of ordinary life.
Julian shifts, his tiny fingers curling into the fabric of my sweater, and the movement pulls me backward in time without warning.
The first trimester was easy, almost deceptively so.
I was tired, yes, nauseous in a way that felt textbook, but otherwise manageable.
I remember thinking that maybe I’d be one of the lucky ones.
That my body would cooperate the way it always has.
My second trimester corrected that assumption swiftly.
Appointments multiplied overnight, words like “monitoring” and “precautionary” started appearing more often than reassurance. I spent long afternoons on exam tables staring at ceiling tiles, learning to read doctors’ faces the way I read headlines—searching for what wasn’t being said.
By the third trimester, everything felt fragile. Time stretched and compressed simultaneously, days blurred into waiting. Waiting for results, calls, and for my body to behave.
It didn’t.
Julian arrived early, furious about it, lungs underdeveloped and tiny fists clenched like he was already fighting the world.
I remember the shock of how small he was, the way my heart lodged somewhere in my throat and stayed there.
I remember being wheeled past him, catching only a glimpse before he disappeared behind glass and wires and machines that beeped too loudly in rooms that never fully slept.
A month in the NICU changes you.
You learn to mother through incubator walls, how to love with your hands hovering inches away, memorize numbers and alarms and the sound of your child breathing because you’re terrified of what silence might mean.
I push the cart a little slower now, grounding myself in the present. Julian sighs softly, his cheek warm against my chest, his heartbeat steady. He’s here, and he’s healthy. He laughs now and smiles like the world hasn’t taught him anything painful yet.
At the end of the aisle, I stop to grab a box of diapers, shifting my weight to keep him comfortable. My reflection catches in the freezer door—me with dark circles that never quite fade, hair pulled back in a practical knot, a baby strapped to me like an extension of my own body.
He looks just like his father.
The thought lands quietly, the way it always does. Not sharp enough to wound, nor soft enough to ignore. Dark eyes, familiar nose, and a face that mirrors someone who walked out of my life before he ever knew it existed. Bittersweet feels like an understatement.
Julian stirs, lips puckering, then settles again, one tiny hand resting flat against my skin as if to remind me where I am. I bend my head and kiss his hair, breathing him in.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, more promise than statement.
And for now, that’s enough.
When we get home an hour later, the apartment smells like citrus cleaner and something richer underneath—rosemary, maybe, or garlic sautéed just a little too long. I pause just inside the door, grocery bags biting into my fingers, and glance toward the kitchen.
“Looks like Grandma decided to drop by,” I whisper to Julian, who’s awake now.
He blinks up at me, unimpressed by my powers of deduction.
In the kitchen, the fridge hums louder than usual when I open it, packed so full that a container of cut fruit immediately tries to escape.
I catch it with my elbow, sighing. Every shelf is stacked—prepped meals in labeled containers, bottles of milk lined up like soldiers, and snacks I didn’t ask for but will absolutely eat at two in the morning when Julian decides sleep is optional.
“Mom,” I call out.
She appears from the hallway like she’s been waiting for her cue—apron on, hair pulled back, eyes bright in a way that tells me she’s been here for at least an hour.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” she mutters, as if that explains everything.
“I was at the store.”
“With him?” Her gaze drops immediately to Julian, her entire face softening. “There’s my handsome boy.”
Julian responds with a small, pleased sound that feels like betrayal.
“I told you you don’t have to keep doing this,” I express, setting the grocery bags down. “I can manage.”
“I know you can,” she replies easily, already unbuckling the carrier. “That doesn’t mean you should have to.”
She lifts him like she’s been doing it her whole life, tucking him into her shoulder, swaying without thinking.
Watching her with him is complicated in a way I don’t always have language for.
Gratitude and frustration braided together.
Love threaded with the quiet need to prove I can do this on my own.
She presses a kiss to his head. “He’s heavier.”
“That’s called growth,” I retort dryly. “The pediatrician is very proud.”
“As she should be.” My mom glances at me over Julian’s shoulder. “You eating?”
“I just bought food.”
“Yes, but did you eat?”
I don’t answer fast enough.
She hums like she’s won something. I roll my eyes and begin unloading groceries, my movements automatic. This is how it goes: she shows up, fills gaps I didn’t ask her to fill, and pretends it’s not because she worries constantly.
Which she does. Loudly, passionately, and relentlessly.
Julian starts to fuss—a low warning sound that means he’s tired but fighting it out of principle. I reach for him, and she hands him over without argument this time.
“Nap time,” I decree as I settle onto the couch, shifting him until his head fits beneath my chin again. His body relaxes almost immediately, the tension draining out of him like he trusts me to hold the world still for a while.
My mom watches us, her expression softening further. “You’re doing good, Katie.”
I close my eyes briefly. “I know. Thanks, Mom.”
And I do, most days at least.
She lingers for a bit longer, straightening things that don’t need straightening, asking questions she already knows the answers to. Eventually, she kisses my cheek, squeezes my shoulder, and leaves with a promise to “just pop by tomorrow.”
The door closes behind her, and the apartment settles into a quieter rhythm.
Julian falls asleep in minutes. I set him up in his cot before wandering back to my small desk by the window. I boot up my laptop and reach for the coffee mug I abandoned earlier before we went shopping. It’s disgustingly cold, but I’m too tired to wake up and reheat it, so I drink it that way.
Work slides back into place easily—familiar and grounding. I start drafting an article about Ava Noa, how she just celebrated her daughter’s first birthday and the careful way she’s testing the waters of a comeback after choosing domestic quiet over stadium lights for a while.
I pause halfway through, struck by the symmetry.
I wrote about Ava taking a break to be a wife and a mother about a year ago, before my life flipped upside down in the worst and best ways.
Now I’m writing about her returning to the world of music and fame.
Time folds in on itself like that—headlines becoming echoes.
The media house has been good to me. More than good, actually.
Marianne approved of me working from home until Julian turns one.
It wasn’t a fight; it was an offer, delivered gently, with trust, and I don’t take that lightly.
I type steadily, muscle memory taking over while part of me stays tuned to the rise and fall of Julian’s breathing.
When I finally close the laptop, the sun has shifted, afternoon light slanting across the floor. I check on Julian, brush a finger over his cheek, and let myself breathe. This is my life now—complicated, quiet, and full. I’ve mostly made peace with that. Mostly.
Julian is still sleeping, so I decide to take a nap myself. I’m too tired to make it to the bed, and the sofa is closest.
My phone buzzes just as I sink onto the cushions.
Addison.
I smile before I answer, thumb already hitting accept. “You better be calling to tell me you’re alive.”
Her face fills the screen—grainy but unmistakable—hair pulled back, eyes sharp, the familiar controlled chaos of her background telling me she’s not calling from anywhere comfortable.
Mogadishu. Familiar, scary, and the last place I’d go back to.
But this is Addison we’re talking about. She lives for the danger.
“Where’s my godson?” she demands without missing a beat.
“No hello Kate, I missed you Kate, how are you Kate?” I mock.
“Show me. Show me. Show me,” she demands, ignoring me.
I laugh softly and angle the camera toward the nursery door. “He’s asleep. Miracles do happen.”
“Rude,” she mutters. “Fine. Next best thing. How’s he doing?”
“Good. Happy. Growing. Judging me constantly.”
“As he should.”
We talk in quieter tones, both of us instinctively lowering our voices even though he’s not in the room. She tells me about being back in Somalia, how this second attempt at peace talks feels different—more brittle, like everyone’s pretending not to see the cracks forming under their feet.
“It’s tense, but compared to some of the places I’ve been? This is manageable.”
I shake my head. “You’re allergic to the concept of self-preservation.”
“And you love me anyway.”
“I do.”
She leans closer to her screen, eyes softening. “I have something to tell you.”
My stomach tightens. “That tone never means anything good.”
“Just—listen, and don’t freak out.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“I found him.”
“Him as in him, him?!”
“Yes,” she confirms.
She does not need to name him for me to know who she’s talking about.
The room tilts. I don’t speak. I don’t breathe properly. My hand tightens around the phone like it might slip otherwise.
“Are you sure it’s him?” I ask because denial is still a reflex.
“Mostly. Or at least… someone who matches him. Same trail, same ghosts. I didn’t tell you before because I wanted to be sure.”
My pulse is loud in my ears. “Addison.”
“I know you’ve let it go. I know you’ve built a life without him, but you deserved to know that he didn’t vanish into nothing. He’s just very, very good at disappearing.”
I swallow, my free hand pressing flat against my stomach like that might steady me. Like that might anchor me in the present instead of dragging me backward into memories I boxed up for survival.
“What does that mean?” I ask softly.
“It means,” she starts, then stops, as her eyes flick off-screen.
“Addy? What is it?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her head tilts slightly, listening. The background noise shifts—voices, movement, something hurried just out of frame.
Then a sound cuts through her side of the call, and it takes a second for it to register as an alarm.
Her expression changes instantly. Gone is the teasing, replaced by something colder.
“Kate,” she calls, already moving, the camera jostling slightly. “I need you to listen to me.”
My heart slams into my ribs. “Addison, what’s happening?”
“I can’t explain right now.” Her voice is calm, but I know her too well. Calm means danger. “If I don’t call you back in an hour—“
“Addison—“
“I mean it.” She stops walking, looks directly into the camera. “Do not panic. Do not do anything stupid. Just stay where you are.”
The screen glitches.
“Addy?” I shout, my voice too sharp now. “Addison!”
The call drops, and the apartment is suddenly, painfully quiet. I redial her number over and over again, panic gripping me, settling deeper when no call goes through. I know that alarm. I heard it myself a year ago. It’s happening again. Fuck!
Julian stirs in his crib down the hall, a soft sound that grounds me just enough to keep my knees from buckling.
Please be okay, Addy.