I opened my mouth.
Nothing came.
For the affair? For Vanessa? For the money? For the night at urgent care? For Claire? For making Hannah carry the weight of motherhood beside a man who wanted applause for standing nearby?
“I don’t know how to say all of it,” I admitted.
That was the first honest thing I had said in months.
Hannah’s eyes filled, but she did not cry.
“You don’t get to use regret as a shortcut,” she said. “You don’t get to feel terrible for a week and call that change.”
“I know.”
“No,” she whispered. “You don’t. But maybe you can learn.”
Claire shifted the carrier slightly. Grace made a soft sound in her sleep.
I looked down.
My daughter’s cheeks were round and pink. Her lashes rested against her skin. One tiny sock was slipping off.
I wanted to reach for her.
I did not.
That restraint hurt more than begging would have.
Claire noticed. Her expression changed a little.
Not soft. But less closed.
Hannah said, “Your first visit is Friday.”
“Will you be there?”
“No. A supervisor will.”
I nodded.
She turned to leave.
“Hannah,” I said.
She paused.
“How did you do it? The house. The attorney. Everything.”
She looked back at me.
“I did it the way women have done hard things forever, Trevor. I cried when the baby slept, and I worked when she woke up.”
Then she walked away with Claire beside her.
The two mothers of my consequences walked out together, carrying Grace between them.
## PART FIVE — GRACE
The visitation center smelled of carpet cleaner, crayons, and coffee left too long on a hot plate.
I hated it on sight.
That made me ashamed, because the room was more generous than I deserved. It had toys, rocking chairs, clean blankets, framed prints of animals on the walls. It was designed for children to feel safe around adults who had made safety complicated.
A woman named Mrs. Alvarez met me at the door.
She was in her sixties, with silver hair cut short and eyes kind enough to see through nonsense.
