Chapter 42 #2
As if on cue, the door swings open and a nurse steps in, followed by a woman with dark waves pulled into a low bun and a warm, open expression. She’s wearing navy scrubs beneath a hospital-issued cardigan and a badge clipped to her shirt that says Marisol Alvarez, LCSW.
She steps fully into the room, offering a gentle smile.
“And that’s where I would come in. Hello, I’m Marisol—I’m the hospital’s perinatal social worker.
I’m here to help guide you through next steps if Anna’s planning to place the baby with you, which from the little bit I just heard, it sounds like that’s what she’s wanting. ”
She turns to Anna first. “Hey, sweet girl. You’re doing really well. I’m glad to see you smiling.”
Anna gives her a tired nod, and Marisol turns her focus to me and Wren.
“So I’ve heard a little bit about what’s going on. I know this is all fresh and emotional, but I want to walk you through what it would realistically look like if the two of you are really considering adoption.”
Wren straightens beside me, her hands twisting in her lap. I can tell she’s trying to stay calm, to keep herself from spiraling. I want to take her hand, but mine are still full. Still holding the weight of this baby who just changed everything.
Marisol’s voice is kind but steady. “Legally, Anna can’t sign any formal relinquishment documents for seventy-two hours. That’s Montana law. But if she chooses to proceed after that, and if you two decide you want to move forward, we’d begin the expedited home study process.”
Wren’s brows furrow. “But what about now? I mean…she’d be discharged soon, right?”
“Yes,” Marisol says, nodding. “We can arrange for temporary guardianship through the hospital’s legal counsel. That would allow the baby to leave with you under Anna’s written consent until the adoption is finalized.”
Wren turns to Anna then, her voice small. “But…what if you change your mind?”
Anna’s eyes fill instantly, but she doesn’t look away. “I won’t.”
She says it quietly, but it’s firm. She’s already made peace with the heartbreak of it.
Then she lets out a breath and offers a sad, wobbly smile. “But…if I wanted to come see her—you’d let me, right?” Her voice cracks. “Would you let me visit sometimes? Or just…send pictures? Letters?”
There’s a long silence. I can feel Wren beside me, frozen with the weight of it all. The weight of being asked to love and let in. To protect and stay soft at the same time.
She turns to me finally, her eyes wide, glassy. “What do we do, Sawyer?”
I don’t have an easy answer. But I know one thing. The baby stirs in my arms, and her fingers tighten around mine.
I whisper, just to Wren, “We say yes.”
Wren turns to Anna. “You could always visit. Really. Whenever you want. You can even come stay with us. We’d want that. And we’ll send pictures all the time. Updates, anything.”
Anna lets out a breath, part relief, part grief.
“I can’t believe this is happening right now,” Wren whispers, eyes shining. “I mean—this is your baby, Anna. I just…don’t even have the words.”
I shift the baby slightly in my arms—careful, steady—and reach my free hand out, resting it gently against Wren’s back. She leans into it.
I turn toward Marisol. “So what do we do now?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “First, the hospital will still list Anna on the birth certificate—she’s the biological mother, so that’s standard. But since there’s no father listed, and she’s naming the two of you as prospective adoptive parents, we’ll initiate temporary guardianship.”
The nurse who’s been quietly standing by walks over and hands Wren a manila folder. Her hands shake a little as she takes it. Inside are several sheets of crisp white paper, a few highlighted spots already marked in yellow.
“That’s the birth certificate paperwork,” Marisol says, gently.
“Anna, you’ll fill out the first half. You’ll name the baby, and indicate your intent to place her for adoption.
The second part will remain blank until everything’s legally finalized.
But this way, the hospital can still process the form before discharge. ”
Anna nods slowly, as if it’s finally sinking in.
Marisol turns to us. “As for the guardianship—it’s a short-term legal agreement.
We’ll have you fill out a temporary custody affidavit today, which will be notarized and filed with the hospital’s legal office.
It gives you permission to take the baby home, seek medical care, make basic decisions until adoption proceedings begin. I’ll walk you through everything.”
I glance down at the baby—her lips twitch slightly, like she’s dreaming—and then back at Marisol.
Wren exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a full hour. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. We’re doing this.”
Marisol softens. “This isn’t something you’re meant to navigate alone. I’ll be with you through all of it. And if at any point it feels too much, we pause. Understand?”
We both nod, and for the first time since Anna spoke those two words— you two —I feel like I can breathe again.
Marisol gently lays a pen beside Anna’s tray. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Anna takes it with a small nod, her fingers wrapped tight around the barrel. She leans forward slightly and starts scribbling on a few of the forms. Her bottom lip pulls between her teeth as she moves through each line, pausing here and there like she needs to catch her breath.
Then she looks up at us. “What do you want to name her?”
Wren turns to me, startled. “We have no idea,” she says, her voice a little too fast, stunned. “We haven’t even—”
But I cut her off. “Ruthie.”
Wren freezes. “What?”
“Her name is Ruthie.”
There’s a second where the room feels like it tilts again—not in a dizzying way, but in that quiet way when something just clicks.
Wren’s eyes widen, her hand frozen mid-air above the baby’s swaddle. “Are you sure?” she asks. “We don’t have to pick right now, maybe we should look—”
But I shake my head, already sure. “It’s perfect for her.”
And it is.
She’s Ruthie. There’s something soft and strong in it.
Anna nods, scribbling it down. “Middle name?”
Wren’s voice is quieter this time. “She should be named after you.”
Anna looks up, nodding like she agrees with her.
Wren runs a finger down the baby’s tiny nose. “After all, you helped get her here.”
I snort, trying to lighten the mood because my throat’s already getting too tight. “Ruthie Sawyer?” I ask. “Ruthie Raymond?”
Wren shoots me a look. “Okay, yeah, maybe not that.”
She picks up Ruthie’s tiny hand. “Ruthie Ray.”
I look down at her again—this tiny little thing skin like silk—and it lands somewhere deep in my chest.
Ruthie Ray.
It’s good. It’s strong. It’s hers.
Anna tilts her head. “How is it spelled?”
“Like a ray of sunshine,” Wren says. “Because that’s what she is. In all of this…she’s the light.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until I see it—one fat tear that drips down from my jaw and lands softly on Ruthie’s arm. I wipe it with the back of my wrist and look at Anna, who’s still holding the pen, waiting.
“Add Anna,” I say with a wobbly voice.
She looks up at me, confused. “What?”
“Her middle name,” I say. “Add Anna to it. Ruthie Ray Anna Hart.”
Wren turns to me slowly. Anna just stares at us, her mouth partly open.
“So she always knows where she came from,” I add. “So she always has a piece of you.”
Anna covers her mouth with one hand, and a single tear slides down her cheek. She doesn’t say anything—just nods, like the words are stuck somewhere in her throat—and then lowers the pen again.
“Done.” She clicks the pen closed. “Ruthie Ray Anna Hart.”
A name built from all of us. From love. From loss. From the hope that gets you through both, the hope that brought us all here.
Across the room, Paul’s got one hand over his mouth, his shoulders trembling. Cindy’s wiping at her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve, trying to hold herself together. Neither of them says anything, but they don’t have to. Their faces say it all.
I can’t fathom what this feels like for them. A gain for us. But a loss for them, maybe. They’re giving up a granddaughter. Not because they want to, but because life gave them too much all at once.
And Anna—I can’t stop thinking about Anna. Signing papers that break her heart open so someone else can be whole. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything braver than that.
The nurse takes the folder quietly and steps out of the room.
Marisol turns back to us, her voice warm and a little teasing. “So. You two ready for a baby?”
Wren looks at me. I look at her.
And it doesn’t matter that the nursery still feels unfinished or that we don’t have a car seat or that we didn’t see this coming.
Because somehow—deep in my bones—I know.
“Yes,” we both say, at the exact same time.
Marisol laughs softly. “Well then,” she says, her smile stretching, “let’s get this baby home.”
And just like that, we’re parents.