Daniel pulled out a chair.
“I do not know.”
I turned another page and found a signature line.
My name was printed beneath it.
Not signed.
Just printed.
I put the pages into a neat stack.
“What did she tell you this was?”
“Family paperwork.”
“That is not an answer.”
He looked down at the floor.
“I know.”
I slid the pages backinto the folder.
Daniel stood.
“Do you want me to ask her?”
“Yes.”
“Today?”
“Today.”
He reached for the folder, then stopped.
I put my hand over it.
“I will keep this.”
He nodded.
At 3:15, the Buick sat in the driveway with both empty car seats waiting beside the open trunk. Daniel carried one across the pavement while I stood at the kitchen window with the blue folder on my phone screen.
He set the seat down and checked the straps.
“These are tighter than they look,” he said.
“You have said that four times.”
“I am hoping the fifth time makes me an expert.”
I smiled despite myself.
He smiled back.
For a few seconds, we were only two people preparing for two babies.
Then he closed the trunk.
“I am going to ask Mom what she meant.”
I held up my phone.
The photograph showed thefolder cover and the first page.
“Take a picture of this too,” he said.
“I already did.”
“Good.”
He put his hands in his jacket pockets.
“She may have found some standard form online.”
“Maybe.”
“You do not think so.”
“I think the language is too specific.”
“Specific to what?”
I looked at the folder.
“I do not know yet.”
Daniel glanced toward the house.
“She kept saying Leo would need the family arrangement.”
I looked up.
