For thirty-one hours, he was mine.
The room smelled like antiseptic and warm milk.
Before the nurse came, I tucked my grandmother’s cross into the fold of his yellow blanket, where no one would see it.
It was the only thing I had to give him.
At hour thirty-one, my mother walked in.
She had her pearls on, and a leather handbag over her arm, and a folder.
She set the folder on the tray table without looking at me.
“Sign them,” she said.
I stared at the papers.
Adoption papers.
Somebody had already filled in the blanks.
“You said you would help me,” I whispered.
“This is the help,” my mother said. “Sign them. Or don’t come home.”
My father stood in the doorway, checking his Rolex.
He never once looked at the baby.
I was 18.
I had stitches, a b*dy that wouldn’t stop shaking, and four dollars in my coat pocket.
