Billing. Your daughter listed you as an emergency family contact. There appears to be an outstanding balance of eighteen thousand dollars on her delivery account.”
I looked at the black folder on my table.
Eighteen thousand dollars.
The exact kind of problem people remembered poor mothers for.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Why are you calling me?”
“The primary card on file was declined. Mr. Whitmore requested that we contact listed relatives before transferring the account to extended billing.”
Mr. Whitmore.
Nathan.
Of course.
He had closed the door in my face and opened the bill in my name.
“I did not authorize payment,” I said.
The man’s tone became careful. “I understand. We simply wanted to confirm whether you intended to assist.”
Assist.
That was another word people used when they meant surrender.
I turned the music box key once. The little moon began to play a thin, sweet tune, one Lena had loved as a child. I listened until the first phrase ended.
Then I said, “You should call the family she chose.”
There was silence on the line.
“Pardon?”
“I was told I was not family. Please update your records.”
I ended the call.
My hand shook afterward, but not from regret. From the terrible strength it takes to do something you should have done years ago.
An hour passed. Then the texts began.
Mama, did someone from billing call you?
It’s a misunderstanding.
Please don’t embarrass me.
Nathan says you’re being difficult.
Can you answer?
Mama, please.
I read each message and placed the phone facedown beside the folder.
At noon, someone knocked on the front door.
Three knocks. Fast, then one softer. Lena’s knock from childhood, though she probably did not know she still used it.
I stood in the kitchen and closed my eyes.
Another knock.
“Mama?”
Her voice came through the door, thin and wet from the rain.
I opened it.
Lena stood on the porch with a baby carrier hooked over one arm. She wore black leggings, a loose sweater, and Nathan’s expensive gray coat, which swallowed her shoulders. Her hair was knotted badly at the back of her head. There was no makeup now. No cream silk robe. No hospital glow.
Just my daughter, exhausted and frightened.
Behind her, Nathan stood near a black car parked crookedly at the curb. He was on the phone, pacing. Elaine sat in the passenger seat, staring forward as though my little house might damage her eyesight.
Lena lifted the carrier slightly.
A pink blanket shifted.
For the first time, I saw my granddaughter.
Only part of her face, one round cheek and a tiny mouth moving in sleep. It was enough to steal the air from me.
Lena saw what happened to my expression, and her own broke.
“Her name is Sophie,” she whispered.
Sophie.
I had imagined many names on the bus. Rose. Amelia. Grace. None of them had prepared me for the real one.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
Lena began to cry.
Not loudly. Not theatrically. Tears simply spilled over, and her lips trembled like she was trying to hold together a cup with a crack down the middle.
“Mama, I made a mistake.”
I looked past her to Nathan.
“Did you?” I asked. “Or did the bill come due?”
Her eyes dropped.
