Valentine is 22 and just graduated college with a PHD in Child Development. After her parents died on her birthday and she was thrown into the foster system she developed a passion for kids and their mental capacities.
Her life was regular to her n...
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Six months.
Her belly was undeniable now. Round and firm and heavy in a way that made her walk different, sleep different, breathe different. The baby moved constantly. Elbows and knees pressing against her from the inside like he was rearranging furniture. She'd be standing at the kitchen counter and feel a kick so sharp she'd grab the edge and laugh. Or she'd be lying in bed at 2 a.m. and feel him rolling and she'd press her hand flat against the spot and whisper "I know. I can't sleep either."
She loved him already. Fiercely. The way you love something you haven't met yet but would burn the world down for.
Quincy was at the brownstone almost every day now. Not living there. But present. He kept clothes in the closet. His toothbrush was back in the bathroom. His coffee was in the freezer. The apartment in Harlem was still technically his but he spent more nights on her couch than in his own bed and they both pretended that was logistical and not emotional.
They weren't together. They hadn't said it. But the line between what they were and what they used to be was getting thinner every day.
Today started with therapy.
Dr. Watts had them do an exercise where they sat facing each other, knees almost touching, and took turns saying "something I've never told you." No filters. No preparation. Whatever came up.
Quincy went first. "I used to write letters to you when I was in prison. Before we met. Not to you specifically. Just to whoever was going to love me one day. I'd write about what kind of man I wanted to be. What kind of father. What kind of husband. And then when I met you, I read them all back and realized I'd been describing you the whole time."
Valentine's chest split open. She didn't cry. She just looked at him and felt something rearrange behind her ribs.
Her turn. "When I was in the foster system, I used to steal magazines from the waiting rooms at social services. The ones with houses in them. Nice kitchens. Backyards. I'd rip out the pages and tape them inside my pillowcase so when I slept I could feel them against my face and pretend I was somewhere safe." She paused. "The first night I slept in this house, I didn't tape anything. I didn't have to."
Dr. Watts let the silence hold. Nobody needed to fill it.
After therapy, Quincy drove them back to the brownstone. Valley was getting dropped off after school by Madisyn's cousin, and they had a few hours before she arrived.
Valentine had been working on the nursery. Slowly. A little each day. She'd painted one wall a soft blue, the color of the dyed ultrasound. The crib was assembled in the corner. She'd ordered bedding online but it hadn't arrived yet. A small shelf held a handful of children's books she'd been collecting from the store, classics Quincy had recommended, and a stuffed bear Lyioris had sent from Haiti with a note that said *for my nephew, from his favorite aunt (only aunt but still).*
