Vivian pickedup the bakery box.
“That sounds very formal.”
“It is clear.”
She turned toward the steps, then stopped.
“After the birth, you may see this differently.”
“Maybe.”
She walked to her car without taking the box back inside.
I watched her carry it away.
The porch felt wider after she left.
At six twenty, Daniel was on the dining room floor with a screwdriver, working on the loose cabinet hinge that had been bothering him for weeks.
I read Vivian’s text from my phone.
“She says, ‘I need the hospital room number too.’”
Daniel tightened the screw.
“She already knows the hospital.”
“She wants the room number.”
He looked up.
“Did she say why?”
“She says she wants to be nearby.”
Daniel reached for another screw.
“I thought she was just trying to help after delivery.”
I put the phone beside the mail stack.
“She asked for a house keythis morning.”
“I know.”
“Now she wants the room number.”
He lowered the screwdriver.
“I should have realized those were connected.”
I watched him fit the hinge back into place.
“What did she tell you yesterday?”
“That she wanted to make things easier.”
“Did she mention Leo?”
Daniel paused.
“She said the family should have a chance to be close to him.”
“Only Leo?”
He looked at me.
“She said the twins.”
“That is not what you heard.”
“No.”
He turned the screwdriver again.
“I heard Leo.”
The cabinet door shifted slightly when he tested it.
“Daniel.”
“I know.”
He sat back on his heels.
“She keeps talking as if she has a place already decided for him.”
I picked up my phone.
“That is why I am not giving her the room number.”
Daniel nodded.
“Okay.”
Then his phone lit up on the table.
He reached for it.
“Sheis asking again.”
I held out my hand.
“Do not answer yet.”
He stopped with his fingers above the screen.
The message disappeared.
“She says she left an envelope for you.”
“Where?”
“With me.”
I looked at the envelope in his hand.
It was thicker than a birthday card.
“What is inside?”
“I do not know.”
“Then open it.”
He turned it over, and my name was written across the front.
“Elena,” he said, “this does not look like help.”
I took the envelope.
The flap had already been loosened.
Inside was a blue hospital folder.
