And while I was in labor, she had apparently decided the room belonged to my brother.
Jason was thirty-one.
Unemployed.
For the previous year, he had bounced between short-term jobs and long stretches of doing very little.
.
My parents had paid his rent twice.
Covered his car insurance.
Handled more emergencies than I could count.
Three days before my scheduled delivery, his lease was ending.
Apparently, instead of asking Daniel and me for help, my parents simply chose our house.
I wanted to call Mom back.
I wanted to scream.
But another contraction hit.
Daniel took my hand.
“Forget them right now.”
He was right.
So I did the only thing that mattered.
I focused on Olivia.
She arrived the following morning.
Seven pounds, one ounce.
When the nurse placed her against my chest, the rest of the world disappeared.
For two days, Daniel and I existed almost entirely inside the hospital room.
Feeding.
Changing.
Learning how to hold her tiny body without feeling like we might break something.
Sleeping in fragments.
By discharge day, all I wanted was home.
I pictured placing Olivia in her crib.
Sitting in the rocking chair.
Beginning our life as three people.
Daniel opened the front door.
Then stopped.
Boxes covered the hallway.
Fast-food wrappers sat in the living room.
A gaming console was connected to our television.
And from down the hall came the unmistakable sound of gunfire from a video game.
Daniel walked toward the nursery.
I followed more slowly with Olivia against my chest.
He pushed open the door.
The crib was gone.
The wooden Olivia sign was still on the wall.