Page 50 of Power Play

eighteen

. . .

Riley

Fancy galas by night, spit-up by day. The glamour of my life never ceases to amaze me.

Emmy has been miserable for the last week. All she wants is to lie on top of me, and most of the time, she coughs directly into my mouth. It’s lucky I’m not a germaphobe, because it would be enough for me to nope out of this.

But when I glance down at the baby sleeping fitfully on my chest, I know I’ll do anything for her. Even if she gives me her germs.

I run my hand over her back, trying to soothe her in slumber. She shifts, the congestion turning her snuffling into rattling snores. Sometimes I have to pinch myself and remember this is my seven-month-old daughter and not a seventy-year-old man sawing logs.

The doorbell rings, and Emmy startles awake, letting out a blood-curdling scream directly into my ear.

“It’s okay, baby,” I murmur as I force myself to my feet. “You’re okay.”

She continues to shriek as I head downstairs, opening the door to reveal Joanne, the social services worker who haunts my nightmares.

My blood runs cold. This is it. Is she here to take away my baby?

“Can I come in?” It’s not a question.

Hugging Emmy to my chest, I step back to allow her entrance.

“I received a report of an urgent-care visit,” she says, getting right into it. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“She has a cold, but we thought… we were concerned it might be something worse,” I admit. Fire licks at my burning cheeks, remembering the way the nurses talked down to us. “First-time parents, you know? Her doctor’s office was closed and we didn’t know what to do.”

I can laugh at it now, but I don’t think I can forget that initial panic. Emmy’s never been sick like that before. And Al’s anxiety only ramped up mine. Now that she’s doing better, I can look back with a clear head and recognize all the things we’ll do differently next time she’s sick.

Because if one thing’s for certain, she will get sick again. Kids are like human petri dishes, constantly passing germs back and forth.

Joanne nods, making a note on her clipboard. “Better to get it checked out than have it be something more severe. You did the right thing.”

My jaw drops. “Really?”

“Yes. We have to investigate, but this shouldn’t impact Mr. Gonzales’s custody petition.” Her eyes narrow. “That is, if you’d still like to give up custody?”

“I’m not giving up anything. He’s her biological father, and I’m his wife. We’re raising her together—as a family.”

To my surprise, Joanne nods. “Very good.”

Confusion muddies my brain, and I stare at her, slack-jawed. “Are you serious?”

What happened to the hard-ass I met that first day?

“The department’s goal is reunification with the biological parent if safe and healthy. You and Mr. Gonzales seem to have a good balance here.” She glances at Emmy, snuffling fitfully, then back at her clipboard. “I do have a few questions for you.”

“Yes, please, sit.”

Emmy whines as I move to the armchair, but as I situate her on my chest, she falls back asleep.

“You said she has a cold?”

“It’s been about a week, and she refuses to sleep unless it’s a contact nap.” I give a self-deprecating chuckle. “Luckily, I don’t have anything to do today.” Or at all this week.

“And Mr. Gonzales?”