Charlie finishes the milk, crumples the carton, and makes a three-point toss straight into the trash can, without touching the rim.

“I’m sure she’s fine. Just busy.”

“Guess I’ll drink my coffee black,” I mutter.

“We have another carton.”

“We do?”

“I bought some yesterday.”

I come to an abrupt halt, hand in midair with a spoon of coffee grounds in it. “You did? You mean you anticipated a future need and prepared for it?”

“Yes.”

“Charlie! I’m impressed! Your frontal lobe is finally developing.”

“You’re welcome.”

A few minutes later, as I pour milk into my coffee, I realize no one other than me has bought milk for the household in nearly twenty years. Even when Simone lived here, she hated American supermarkets, preferring to pay for delivery or going out to eat. Parisian women don’t cook, they order in, she always insisted.

“I wonder what Chloe’s going to be like as a mother.” Charlie’s statement takes all the breath out of me.

“Can we wait until after I’ve had my coffee before we put emotional bamboo under my fingernails?”

“She couldn’t even keep a plant alive when we were dating,” he adds. “I tried growing a pot plant from some seeds I found in your top dresser drawer when you were away at college, and—”

That wakes me up.

“You what?”

“I knew Mom would become suspicious if she saw me growing something, so I asked Chloe to take care of it for me. Went to her house every day to tend to it. Then her mom took her to the Bahamas for a week of vacation and when she came back it was brown and withered.” He sips my coffee. I slap him away.

“On the basis of that touching—and incredibly disturbing on so many levels—story, you’ve determined that Chloe’s unfit for motherhood?”

“No. I’m just still sore about the fact that she killed my one and only successful grow op.”

Not enough coffee in the world for this conversation.

“I’ll wait for her,” I say aloud as I finish my coffee. “When she’s ready, she’ll text.”

“What if she’s never ready?”

It’s been three days. We’ve barely dated. How can someone I’ve barely begun dating make me ache so deeply?

Yeah.

Because she does.

That’s all I need to know.

When Simone left, I filled the woman-sized hole inside me with every kid activity and work-related project I could find. As the kids have matured and left the nest, that hole’s revealed itself. It’s different. A more mature hole, more like a holding space than a blasted-open abyss.

It has purpose.

It has needs.

And right now, it’s the exact shape, size, and volume of Chloe.

“Can’t hurt to text her again, right?” I say.

He shrugs.

Shit. This is bad. I’m seeking validation from Charlie. His idea of a relationship involves paying for the Über.

I don’t need advice. I’m decisive. I’m a take-charge guy.

What’s new? I text her.

And wait.

Chloe

One hour later, we are standing in the bassinet aisle at Babies’R’Us, after an emergency stop for dinner. Apparently Jessica Coffin was right about the fine dining in my future. My first meal as a mother? A six-pack of chicken nuggets. And they were delicious, too.

It is 10:30 at night. I don’t know why a baby superstore is open at this hour, but I am not questioning their retail logic. And we’re not the only shoppers in here.

Jemma is pushing a cart loaded with a case of newborn-size diapers, a six-pack of bottles, packages of cotton receiving blankets, tiny T-shirts, and microscopic socks.

Also in the cart is a bottle of hypo-allergenic, organic baby massage oil. Henry insisted.

He is standing beside me, wiping his eyes with a tissue. He has been weeping since I filled out the birth certificate form, and he saw the baby’s name.

Holliday Browne.

“Henry, please don’t cry,” I say, patting his arm.

“I can’t help it,” he sniffles. “You named her after us.”

“Lucky for her your last name isn’t Hooker,” I smile. “Now can you reach that box on the top shelf?”

Of course he can. He’s seven feet tall. In his stocking feet.

“I think that’s all we need for now.”

“I’ll take it back to your place,” Henry suggests. “I can set up the bassinet. Jem can go back to the hospital with you, and I’ll come get you all when they say you can leave.”

“You’re exhausted,” I tell them. “You both go home. I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

We’re heading for the checkout lane when I am stopped cold by a display of breast pumps.

“No, sweetie, you don’t need one of those,” Jem says gently.

“Li. Where is she? We have to find her!” I finally got someone to unofficially explain what the hell happened. A kind nurse swore me to secrecy. Li arrived in full labor in the emergency room. Had the baby in less than two hours. Our adoption social worker happened to be on another case in the hospital and stopped by to check on Li, who insisted on signing away all rights on the spot. While Yvonne told her she had time, Li was adamant. Yvonne and Kate produced the papers, and within hours, Li disappeared.

Just walked out into the streets of Boston, less than a day after giving birth. No explanation. No note. No nothing.

No—everything.

She left me everything.

“DSS and the police are looking for her,” Henry says. “Don’t worry.”

“She could need a doctor! She’s all alone! My God, Henry, she just gave birth! Where would she go? She’s only sixteen!” I knew from talks with her that she was homeless, and while she swore she didn’t do drugs...

Henry puts his hands on my shoulders.

“There is nothing official that you can do,” he says slowly. “She’s not your child.”

“But her child is my child!”

“All we can do is wait. They’ll find her.”

I’ll think of something.

I always do.

My phone buzzes with a text. I grab and look eagerly. It’s my mother.