Chapter 20 - A Place for Two
Inside the box was a small brass key to my mother's cedar keepsake chest. She had stored handwritten letters in it when I was a child. After she died, I kept the chest beneath her old rocking chair, the one piece of furniture I couldn't bear to give away.
Linda had moved it in the nursery because she thought the corner would look better with a different chair. Daniel had finally brought the chair and chest out of storage and arranged for them to be delivered wherever I chose to live.
"I didn't know what it meant to you," he said.
"I told you," I answered. "You just weren't listening."
He accepted that without defending himself.
We didn't go back to pretending everything was fine. With legal advice, we made a temporary parenting plan and then worked toward a longer one. Daniel lived separately. He attended counseling and stopped sharing my private information with his mother. When he visited Ava, he came alone, on time, and without making every conversation about his feelings.
Linda remained subject to the court's restrictions. The chair incident and the signature on the clinic form were investigated through the appropriate channels. I didn't need to predict every legal outcome to know what I would do: keep records, follow the safety plan, and protect my daughter. Linda never received a key to my new apartment.
Some days I missed the Daniel I thought I'd married. Other days I was angry enough to cry while washing baby bottles. Both feelings were real. Neither gave him a free pass.
Three months after Ava's birth, Nora helped me carry the rocking chair into a small apartment with wide windows and a kitchen painted yellow. It wasn't a mansion. It wasn't even close to perfect. But the only people with keys were people I had chosen.
That evening, Daniel arrived to see Ava. He waited for me to open the door. He didn't let himself in.
"Is this still a good time?" he asked.
I checked Ava's sleepy face and stepped aside. "Yes. Come in."
After he left, I rocked my daughter by the window while the streetlights came on. She stretched one hand across my shirt and settled against my heart.
I thought about the clinic chair. About the way Linda had pulled it away and expected me to apologize for falling. About how long I had waited for somebody else to draw a line.
Ava sighed in her sleep.
May you like
"Nobody gets to decide your place for you," I whispered. "Not even somebody who says they love you."
Then I leaned back, held her close, and felt the chair stay exactly where I'd put it.
