Chapter 14
We didn't bring him home right away. Hospital kept him two nights under observation. I slept in that chair beside plastic bassinet, Jake slept with head on mattress edge, hand on my ankle. Discharge papers said morning. Home already felt different.
Jake carried laundry basket into nursery that afternoon before we brought baby home. Mint walls looked same. White crib still centered under window, sheer curtains moving. Mobile with teddy bears hung too low. I stood in doorway, belly soft and empty now, arms empty.
Linda's quilt lay folded over rail. Cream stitching, little blue stars she made. I stared at it. Jake saw my face.
"Want it gone?" he asked.
I nodded. "Wash it. Store it. Not in crib."
He pulled quilt off, didn't shake it, carried it out like it weighed something. I didn't want her hands still there. My bedding was white cotton I bought at Target, plain, clean. I spread fitted sheet myself, tucked corners tight. Jake adjusted mobile higher, two inches up, so bears hung out of reach. I watched him twist hook.
"Pediatrician said safety check tomorrow," I said. "Flat mattress, nothing else inside. She asked who has access."
Jake tightened screw. "Told her. Only us. No unsupervised visits."
I sat on carpet, back against crib. White carpet still held dent where Linda knelt. "She doesn't hold him," I said. "Until order lapses and therapist says progress real. Not before."
Jake crouched beside me. "I told therapist same thing. She agreed. No argument."
We left quilt in washer running hot. I watched suds churn.
That evening living room smelled like formula and clean laundry. Baby slept in car seat on couch, pink skin, fists curled. Laptop open on coffee table. Therapist face filled screen, gray office behind her. Linda appeared in second square, green dress gone, gray cardigan instead, hair still low bun, pearl earring missing. She looked smaller.
Therapist spoke first. "Sarah, Jake, Linda consented to mediated video contact. Linda understands boundaries. Sarah controls duration. Linda, use language we practiced."
Linda nodded, eyes on screen baby, not us. Voice shook. "May I see him closer?"
Jake tipped car seat slightly. I shifted blanket so baby's face showed. Linda pressed hand to mouth, didn't reach toward camera.
"Sarah," she said. "I put my hands on your neck over crib. I choked you while you were seven months pregnant. You said please stop and I can't breathe and I didn't stop. Jake had to pull me off you. That was assault. It was my choice. Not stress. Not misunderstanding. I endangered you and baby."
Silence held. Baby made small snuffle.
I felt throat tighten remembering red marks. Breath stayed even. "Thank you for saying it correctly," I said.
Linda kept eyes down. "I completed eight sessions. Court required. I attend weekly still. I respect order. I won't contact you directly. I won't come near house."
Therapist nodded. "Sarah, you can state rules for any future contact."
I leaned forward, hands near baby, not touching screen. "Rules stay," I said. "No touching neck or face, ever. No entering nursery without invitation, even if door open. All visits supervised, Jake or I present entire time. No holding baby until pediatrician and therapist both say safe and order expired. If rule breaks, visit ends immediately."
Linda swallowed. "I understand. Supervised only. No nursery without invitation. No neck or face contact. I won't hold baby until you and professionals say yes."
"And no quilt in crib," I added. "We washed it. Stored. Mobile stays high."
"I understand," she said again. Tears came, she didn't wipe dramatically, just blinked.
Therapist closed call after five minutes. Screen went black. Baby kept sleeping.
We brought him home next morning for real. Jake carried car seat through front door, I carried diaper bag. House quiet. Nursery door stood open. White crib empty, sheet smooth, bears still above, flag art on wall behind. I lifted baby from seat, held him against chest, walked to crib.
I didn't lay him down yet. Just stood there, hand supporting head, looking at empty mattress. No quilt. No one leaning over rail. Jake stood behind me, hand on my back.
"This room ours," he said.
May you like
I lowered baby in, adjusted blanket to chest, not higher. Mobile turned slowly in draft. Baby blinked at bears, didn't cry.
I kept hand on crib rail where Linda gripped months ago. Rail felt cool, clean. I breathed. We stayed there watching him breathe, door open, hallway empty.
