Page 39 of Daddy's Ring
I could do this. Could have done this.
Could have stayed all that time ago and built the life I told myself I didn't want because I was too afraid of needing someone more than they needed me.
"I thought I'd have kids one day." The words slip out before I can stop them. "Before the accident. I never—I wasn't ready then, I knew that. But I thought eventually, when things were more stable, when I was older..."
I trail off because finishing the sentence means acknowledging the wound that never quite healed. The future I lost along with everything else that night.
Naomi stays quiet. Lets the admission sit between us without trying to fix it or explain it away.
"Now I have Maeve and she's—she's everything. She's perfect. But she's not mine, not really, and every time I hold her I remember that I'll never..." My voice breaks. "I'll never carry someone. Never feel them grow inside me. Never have that."
"I know." Naomi shifts, adjusting Maeve's weight. "And I'm sorry. That's—there's no making that okay."
She doesn't try to tell me adoption is just as good or that being Maeve's mom is the same as giving birth. Doesn't minimize the loss or suggest I should be grateful for what I have. Just acknowledges the ache and lets it exist.
That's what I've always liked about Naomi. She doesn't bullshit. Doesn't pretend hard things are easy or that pain stops hurting if you reframe it correctly.
"How long has it been?" she asks after a moment. "Since the accident?"
"Eight years." Long enough that most people think I should be over it. Long enough that bringing it up feels self-indulgent,like I'm dwelling on something that doesn't matter anymore. "Sometimes I forget about it for weeks and then something happens and it all comes back."
Like inheriting a baby. Like suddenly becoming a mother to someone else's child and realizing this is as close as I'll ever get to the life I used to imagine.
Maeve makes a soft sound, face scrunching again. Naomi runs her hand over those dark curls, soothing, and the baby settles.
She's so good at this. Makes it look natural and easy, the kind of thing you just know how to do if you're built right for motherhood. Meanwhile I'm still panicking every time Maeve cries, convinced I'm doing something catastrophically wrong.
"You're thinking too loud." Naomi's watching me now, expression somewhere between amused and concerned. "I can practically hear it from here."
"I'm just—" I set down my fork, appetite gone despite the half-finished pasta. "I don't know if I'm doing any of this right. The store, Maeve, all of it. I feel like I'm barely keeping my head above water."
"You've been doing it for two weeks while grieving your best friend," Naomi points out. "Cut yourself some slack."
Slack. The concept feels foreign. I've spent years holding myself together through sheer force of will, refusing to need anyone or let anyone see me struggle. Coming back to Philadelphia was supposed to be temporary—just long enough to help Nia through her illness, to make sure she wasn't alone. I never planned to stay. Never planned to become a mother or a business owner or any of this.
But here I am anyway, sitting in a bookstore that smells like cedar and old paper, watching my friend hold a baby who's legally mine now, trying to figure out how to build a life from pieces I never wanted.
The bell above the door chimes again. A customer—middle-aged woman, scanning the shelves with the kind of purposeful attention that means she knows what she's looking for.
I start to stand but Naomi waves me off. "Finish eating. I've got her."
"You're holding Maeve."
"And I can still help someone find a book." She's already on her feet, moving toward the customer with Maeve still asleep against her shoulder. "Hi there, can I help you find something?"
The woman smiles, charmed immediately by the sight of a sleeping baby. "I'm looking for the new Toni Morrison biography?"
"Back wall, second shelf from the top." I call it out before Naomi has to guess. At least I've got the inventory memorized, even if the spreadsheet defeats me.
Naomi shoots me a look—See? You know what you're doing—and guides the customer toward the right section.
I watch them go, watch Naomi navigate the space like she's worked here for years instead of just visiting, watch Maeve sleep through it all like being passed between people is normal.
Maybe it will be normal. Maybe this is what our life looks like now—me running the store, Naomi helping when she can, Maeve growing up surrounded by books and people who loved her mother.
Maybe I can actually do this.
The thought feels dangerous. Feels like hope, which I've been avoiding because hope means vulnerability and vulnerability means I might actually care about succeeding at this instead of just surviving it.
