Forgiveness, Trust & Forever

Hero

Ten minutes became twelve.
Nobody interrupted.
Not Jen.
Not Titan.
Not Officer Grant at the door.
Not my mother, though my phone lit up twice with her name and once with Dad's, which meant she had been forcibly removed from her own device and was now using his.
Emily fed Eleanora like the entire world had narrowed to milk.
One hand holding the bottle.
One hand in mine.
Our daughter lay across her lap, heavy-eyed and damp-cheeked, rabbit crushed under one elbow like emotional support with ears. Her tiny fingers gripped the bottle, not helping at all but convinced she was essential to the process.
She made a soft gulping sound.
Emily watched her like it was a language.
Maybe it was.
Maybe motherhood was not always instinct.
Maybe sometimes it was translation.
A cry meant hungry.
A fist meant tired.
A turned face meant too much.
A hand reaching meant stay.
Emily's thumb moved once over the back of my hand.
I looked down.
She did not look at me.
Good.
If I made eye contact, I would make a thing.
And I had been explicitly banned from making things.
Internally, unfortunately, I made several.
The bottle emptied slowly.
Eleanora fought sleep with the stubbornness Brandon had apparently ordered into her bones before she was even born.
Her eyelids lowered.
Opened.
Lowered again.
Emily whispered, "Give up."
Eleanora sucked harder.
Emily's mouth twitched.
"You are ridiculous."
I said softly, "She gets that from you."
Emily's eyes flicked to mine.
"Careful."
"She gets beauty from me, obviously."
Her face went flat.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The actor disease."
"I'm injured."
"That doesn't make you humble."
"No, but it makes my cheekbones tragic."
She stared at me.
Then, despite herself, laughed.
Quietly.
Carefully.
Like laughing too loudly might wake every awful thing back up.
Eleanora startled, mouth slipping off the bottle.
Emily froze.
"Sorry."
Our daughter blinked up at her.
Milk-drunk.
Deeply unimpressed.
Then she gave a tiny burp.
Emily's eyes widened.
I pressed my lips together.
Do not laugh.
Do not laugh.
Do not-
Emily looked at me.
"If you laugh, I will make your ribs worse."
"I wasn't going to."
"You absolutely were."
"She burped at you like a tiny drunk landlord."
Emily's mouth fell open.
Then she laughed properly.
One short burst.
Eleanora frowned.
Actually frowned.
I lost the fight and laughed too, then immediately regretted it because my ribs punished joy.
"Ah-fuck."
Emily's laughter stopped.
"Hero."
"I'm fine."
Her glare could have sterilised surgical equipment.
"Banned sentence."
"I'm alive."
"Barely acceptable."
Eleanora made another small sound and turned her face into Emily's jumper.
Done.
Finished.
Trusting Emily to understand that the bottle was now personally offensive.
Emily looked panicked for exactly half a second.
Then she lifted the bottle away.
No asking me.
No handing her over.
Just did it.
"She needs burping," I said softly.
Her eyes narrowed.
"I know."
I held up my free hand.
"Sorry."
"No." Her face softened a fraction. "Say it. Just don't say it like I'm stupid."
"I never think you're stupid."
"You have."
"No." I looked at her. "I've thought you were terrifyingly clever while making decisions that made me want to walk into the sea."
She blinked.
Then nodded slowly.
"Fair."
She shifted Eleanora upright against her shoulder.
Awkwardly.
Carefully.
Not naturally, maybe.
But with attention.
That mattered more.
Her hand spread over the baby's back and patted once.
Too softly.
Eleanora did nothing.
Emily patted again, slightly firmer.
Our daughter sighed like an old woman with a mortgage.
Emily whispered, "Am I doing it wrong?"
"No."
"You're lying."
"Not this time."
Her eyes stayed on Eleanora's curls.
"She's so warm."
"Yes."
"I forget that."
My chest tightened.
She kept patting.
Slow.
Gentle.
Listening.
Waiting.
Eleanora burped against her shoulder, then immediately relaxed.
Emily froze in triumph.
"Oh."
I smiled.
"She approves."
"She sounded rude."
"She is rude."
"She gets that from you."
"There it is."
Emily's mouth softened.
Just for a second.
Then the knock came again.
Three controlled taps.
This time, we both knew the ten minutes were over.
Emily's hand tightened on my fingers before she let go.
I hated the absence immediately.
Ridiculous.
She placed the empty bottle on the side table and kept Eleanora against her shoulder.
"I've got her," she said.
Not defensive.
Not asking.
A statement.
I nodded.
"You do."
Her eyes flicked to mine.
There was fear there.
Always fear.
But also something else now.
A tiny, fragile line drawn through the panic.
I can.
Maybe not forever.
Maybe not perfectly.
But this minute.
I stood carefully.
My ribs objected to democracy again.
Emily watched me but did not comment, which was either mercy or exhaustion.
I went to the door.
Chain on.
Officer Grant stood outside with the female officer beside him.
Behind them, the corridor looked full of movement. Other officers downstairs. A security man speaking quietly into his phone. The building sounded less like a home and more like a guarded border.
"Ava has been detained," Officer Grant said.
I nodded once.
Hearing it again did not make it feel safer.
"Where?"
"Rear lane. She's being taken for questioning."
"Arrested?"
His expression stayed professional.
"Detained at this stage. We have grounds to arrest pending review of the evidence and the key recovered from her possession. The messages and camera are being treated seriously."
Emily's voice came from behind me.
"Seriously is vague."
Officer Grant looked past me.
"Yes, Ms Dean. It is."
I opened the door wider.
He stepped inside only after glancing at Emily for permission.
Good man.
Emily sat upright on the sofa with Eleanora against her shoulder. Our daughter was half asleep, mouth slightly open, one hand tangled in Emily's hair.
The female officer's eyes softened.
Then she corrected her face.
Also good.
Officer Grant stayed near the door.
"We need to take initial accounts of the rear intercom exchange while it's fresh. We have recordings from the system, but your context matters."
Emily looked at me.
Then at Eleanora.
"She's asleep."
"We can wait."
"No." Emily shook her head. "If I wait, I'll remember it worse."
I understood that.
Memory had a way of adding teeth in the dark.
I sat beside her, careful not to crowd.
Officer Grant opened his notebook.
Jen's voice came through from Emily's phone on the side table. "I'm listening. Keep answers factual. Don't speculate beyond what you saw and heard."
Titan was not on the line anymore.
Thank God.
Or not.
Part of me wanted him there.
Part of me did not want him hearing Ava say one day Eleanora would hate Emily for NICU.
Part of me wanted Titan to appear from nowhere and stand in the hallway like a wall made of rage and bad ideas.
But he had given Brandon's voicemail.
He had cracked open enough for one day.
Let him breathe.
Officer Grant started with me.
"What did you see when the intercom activated?"
"Ava at the rear entrance. Hood up. Rain. She was close to the camera."
"What did she say?"
I swallowed.
"Miss me."
Emily's hand stilled on Eleanora's back.
Our daughter slept on.
"What happened then?"
I described it.
Ava saying my name.
The key.
Her saying she never had to break anything.
Her saying we all gave her access.
The list.
Me.
Mimi.
Jo.
Hayden.
Emily's locks.
Emily sat very still through that part.
When Officer Grant asked her to confirm, she nodded.
"She said my locks were sentimental."
The female officer wrote that down.
I watched Emily's face.
No collapse.
No tears.
Just a cold, controlled anger.
"Did you recognise the key?" Officer Grant asked.
Emily looked towards the hallway.
"No. Not from the screen. But I want every old spare accounted for."
"We'll ask your sister about any key she held."
Emily's jaw tightened.
"And Hayden."
"Yes."
"And Hero's old set."
I looked at her.
She didn't look away.
"Mine?"
"You still had keys."
"I still have keys."
"I know."
Her voice wasn't accusation.
Just inventory.
Everything had to be named now.
Even the things that used to be love.
"I can give them to police," I said.
Emily's face flickered.
"No."
Officer Grant paused.
"No?"
Emily swallowed.
"They're his keys."
The room quieted.
She looked at me then.
Not soft.
Not hard.
Something in between.
"That doesn't mean Ava gets to make them suspicious."
My throat tightened.
Officer Grant nodded slowly.
"We can record that Mr Tiffin's keys remain in his possession and have not been missing?"
I nodded.
"They haven't been missing."
Emily looked away.
Eleanora shifted.
Emily automatically adjusted her, one hand supporting her head.
No one commented.
We had learned something.
Officer Grant asked about the rest.
My statement to Ava.
Her claim about the baby she had lost.
The way she looked at Eleanora.
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
"She said she had my eyes," I said.
Emily's face changed.
"Her eyes," she corrected.
Officer Grant looked up.
"Sorry?"
Emily's voice stayed calm.
"She has her own eyes."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Officer Grant wrote that down too, though I doubted it was legally relevant.
Maybe it was.
Maybe all of it was.
The way we refused to let Ava turn Eleanora into anyone's symbol.
Then came the NICU line.
Officer Grant looked uncomfortable before he even asked.
"Ava referred to future questions from the child about NICU."
Emily's body went still.
Eleanora slept on her.
I felt every muscle in myself tighten.
Jen's voice came through quietly. "You don't have to answer personal medical history in detail."
Emily looked at the phone.
Then at Officer Grant.
"No. But I'll say this."
Her hand moved over Eleanora's back.
Slow.
Rhythmic.
"I gave birth at thirty weeks by traumatic emergency C-section. Eleanora was taken to NICU. Hero visited her every day. I did not."
The sentence lay bare in the room.
Clean.
Brutal.
True.
The female officer's face shifted before she could stop it.
Not judgement.
Pain.
Emily saw and looked away.
Officer Grant wrote with care.
"Ava appears to know at least part of that history," Emily continued. "She used it to threaten me emotionally."
Jen said, "Good. Stop there."
Emily stopped.
I wanted to put my hand over hers.
I didn't.
Not with officers watching.
Not while she was holding herself upright by force.
Officer Grant's voice was gentler now.
"Thank you."
Emily nodded once.
No thank you back.
She did not owe gratitude for surviving the statement.
Then my phone buzzed.
I flinched.
Everyone looked.
Not unknown.
Titan.
A text this time.
Signal dropped. Obviously. Not feelings.
Despite everything, I snorted.
Emily looked at me.
"What?"
I showed her.
She stared.
Then the corner of her mouth moved.
"Idiot."
"Yes."
Another text arrived.
Also I am outside. Don't start.
My blood pressure did something impressive.
Emily's eyes widened.
"What?"
I stood too fast.
Pain flashed white.
"Fuck-"
"Hero!"
Officer Grant looked towards the hallway.
"Outside where?"
I read the next message.
Not gate. Across road. In car. Perfectly legal adjacent.
Emily closed her eyes.
"He is unbelievable."
I called him immediately.
He answered on the first ring.
"Before you shout, I'm parked legally."
"That is not the issue."
"It usually is."
"Tie."
"I didn't come in. I didn't breach the gate. I didn't interfere with police. I am sitting in my car across the road because Ava was at the rear lane and I am not letting my niece, my brother, or Emily sit in that building without someone watching the front who is not being paid by the hour."
Emily listened, expression unreadable.
Officer Grant looked like he was deciding whether Titan required police management or a medal.
Possibly both.
"You need to go home," I said.
"No."
"Lockdown."
"Essential emotional intimidation."
"Not a category."
"Should be."
Emily held out her hand for the phone.
I hesitated.
She glared.
I gave it to her.
"Titan."
"Emily."
"You cannot stay outside all day."
"Watch me."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"You are not helpful if police have to arrest you for being weird near my gate."
"I am extremely helpful while being weird near your gate."
Her mouth twitched.
Then her face softened unexpectedly.
"Titan."
He went quiet.
She looked down at Eleanora.
"I know why you're here."
Silence.
He said nothing.
"I know about Brandon's promise."
Still nothing.
Her voice lowered.
"And I know you think standing outside in the rain counts as keeping it."
A pause.
Then Titan's voice, rough. "It does."
Emily closed her eyes.
Maybe that hurt her.
Maybe it healed something.
Maybe both.
"Then stay in the car," she said.
My head snapped towards her.
"Emily."
She ignored me.
"Do not approach the gate. Do not speak to press. Do not shout at officers. Do not make me regret this in the next four minutes."
Titan said, "Four minutes is tight."
"Titan."
"Fine."
"And if police tell you to leave, you leave."
"Define leave."
"Titan."
"Fine."
She handed the phone back to me.
I stared at her.
She lifted an eyebrow.
"What?"
"You're letting him stay?"
"I'm letting him sit in a car across the road so he doesn't chew through his own steering wheel."
Titan said through the phone, "Accurate."
I rubbed a hand over my face.
This family would kill me.
Probably before my ribs healed.
Officer Grant said, "We can speak with him outside and confirm he's not obstructing. Given the circumstances, as long as he remains in his vehicle and follows instruction, we'll manage it."
Emily nodded like she had just chaired a meeting.
"Thank you."
I stared at Officer Grant too.
Betrayed by everyone.
Titan sounded smug.
I hung up on him.
Childish.
Satisfying.
Emily looked faintly amused.
Then Eleanora stirred.
This time, she woke properly.
Not crying at first.
Just opening her eyes with the heavy confusion of a baby who had slept through an attempted confrontation with her father's unstable ex and several police procedures.
She blinked at Emily.
Then at me.
Then at Officer Grant.
Her face crumpled.
"Ah," Emily said. "Too many men."
Officer Grant looked startled.
I laughed.
Bad choice.
Ribs.
Eleanora began to cry.
A small, overtired cry that escalated fast because she was one, and one-year-olds had no interest in proportionate responses.
Emily shifted her.
"It's okay."
Eleanora disagreed loudly.
The female officer stepped back slightly, giving space.
Hero's instinct rose in me like a reflex.
Take her.
Rock.
Bounce.
Fix.
Emily's eyes flicked to mine.
She saw it.
I stopped.
Physically stopped.
Hands at my sides.
Waiting.
Emily swallowed.
Then stood with Eleanora in her arms.
"I'll walk her."
I nodded.
She paced the living room.
Slow.
Side to side.
Eleanora cried against her shoulder, red-faced and furious, tiny fists grabbing at Emily's hair.
Emily winced but did not hand her over.
"It's okay," she repeated.
It wasn't.
Not yet.
Eleanora screamed harder.
Emily's face tightened.
Shame flashed across it.
The old shame.
The NICU shame.
The court shame.
The instinct that said crying meant failure, and failure meant she should leave before she caused more damage.
I saw it happen in real time.
So did Jen.
"Emily," Jen said quietly from the phone.
Emily stopped pacing.
Eleanora sobbed against her.
"You are allowed to not calm her immediately," Jen said.
Emily's jaw trembled.
I didn't speak.
I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
But Jen had chosen the right words first.
Emily nodded once, though her eyes were wet.
"She hates this."
"She's tired," I said softly.
Emily looked at me.
I added carefully, "And she hates this."
A tear slipped down Emily's cheek.
"Both."
"Yes."
She resumed pacing.
Eleanora cried.
Not forever.
It felt like forever.
It was probably three minutes.
Three minutes of Emily walking the rug with our daughter in her arms while police pretended not to watch and I stood there with my hands useless and aching and forced myself not to steal the hard part from her just because I knew the steps.
Emily hummed.
Barely audible at first.
Not because she couldn't sing.
Because singing meant opening something.
Then the hum became a melody.
Soft.
Clear.
Beautiful in a way that made the whole room go still.
You Are My Sunshine.
The mobile song.
Brandon's terrible song, when he used to butcher it on purpose and make me laugh until I cried.
But Emily didn't butcher it.
Emily never had.
Her voice was the sort of thing people remembered without knowing they were remembering it. Warm. Low. A little broken at the edges today, but still hers. Still lovely.
She sang like she was afraid Eleanora might reject that too.
The first line trembled.
The second steadied.
By the third, Eleanora's crying had changed.
Not stopped.
Changed.
Her sobs grew smaller, confused by beauty, maybe. By familiarity. By a voice she had known before machines, before NICU, before the world touched her.
Emily's eyes filled, but she kept singing.
Not loudly.
Not for us.
For the baby in her arms.
For Boo.
Eleanora's little fist loosened in Emily's hair.
Her cheek pressed into Emily's shoulder.
Emily sang softer.
The room held its breath.
Officer Grant looked down at his notebook.
The female officer looked at the wall.
Jen said nothing.
I looked away because there were some things too private even to witness fully, and somehow this was one of them.
Emily Dean, singing beautifully to a baby who had every reason to prefer other arms and still settled slowly into hers.
Eleanora's sobs turned into hiccups.
Then whimpers.
Then little broken breaths against Emily's shoulder.
Emily kept singing until the last note thinned into silence.
When she stopped, Eleanora was quiet.
Awake.
But quiet.
Her tiny hand patted Emily's collar.
Emily froze.
Then whispered, "Hi."
Eleanora sniffled.
Laid her head down.
Stayed.
Emily's face crumpled.
I had to grip the back of the sofa to keep myself still.
She looked at me over Eleanora's head.
Her eyes said everything.
Did you see?
Yes.
I saw.
I saw her choose you.
I saw you stay.
I saw what Ava did not understand.
That mothers were not made only in the first clean moment.
Sometimes they were made later.
In blood.
In shame.
In police-filled living rooms.
In a song sung beautifully by a terrified mother who finally dared to let her daughter hear it.
Officer Grant cleared his throat gently.
"I think we have enough for now."
Emily nodded, unable to speak.
He closed his notebook.
"We'll continue downstairs. Ava is being transported. We'll keep you updated."
"Thank you," I said.
The officers left.
Door closed.
Locks.
Chain.
The room softened by one degree.
Jen's voice came through.
"I'm staying on the line while you both breathe."
Emily laughed weakly.
"That sounds expensive."
"It is."
I looked at Emily.
You sang."
Her expression changed instantly.
Defensive.
"Barely."
"You sang beautifully."
Her mouth parted.
Not with vanity.
With fear.
Like the compliment had touched something too exposed.
"Don't make it a thing."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm making it a small, accurate observation."
"That's worse."
I smiled carefully.
"She knew it."
Emily looked down at Eleanora.
"What?"
"The song. Your voice. She knew it."
Her eyes filled.
"Don't."
"She did."
Emily's hand moved over Eleanora's back.
Soft.
Shaking.
"She settled," she whispered.
"Yes."
"I sang."
"Yes."
"She didn't hate it."
"No."
Her face crumpled a little.
"She knew it," I said again.
This time, Emily did not argue.
That shut her up.
She looked down at Eleanora, who was still awake but quiet, cheek resting against her shoulder, eyes half-lidded.
"It did," she whispered.
Something buzzed again.
Not our phones.
The intercom.
Front gate this time.
Emily and I both froze.
Jen sighed. "I miss five seconds ago."
I went to the screen.
Officer at the gate.
Behind him, a delivery driver holding a brown paper bag and looking deeply regretful about his life choices.
The officer pressed the intercom.
"Delivery for Ms Dean? Says from Anna Reynolds."
Emily blinked.
"What now?"
I pressed the button.
"What is it?"
The delivery driver lifted the bag.
"Soup?"
I stared.
Emily stared.
Jen burst out laughing.
Actual laughter.
The officer looked like he might laugh too.
The driver added, "And, uh, bread. Also painkillers? No, sorry, pharmacy bag separate."
Emily put a hand over her mouth.
"My dad," I said.
Emily looked at me.
"Your dad made soup?"
"When worried."
"He sent soup during a police investigation?"
"Yes."
"What kind?"
I looked back at the screen.
"What kind?"
The delivery driver checked the label with the gravity of a man handling state secrets.
"Chicken and vegetable."
Emily nodded slowly.
"Acceptable."
I pressed the intercom.
"Officer can check it first."
The officer at the gate nodded.
The driver looked like he wanted to evaporate.
Emily lowered herself carefully onto the sofa with Eleanora still against her.
"She settled," she said, as if reminding herself.
"Yes."
"I sang."
"Yes."
"She didn't hate it."
"No."
"She might later. When she has taste."
"Undoubtedly."
Emily smiled.
Small.
Tired.
Real.
I sat beside her.
Close enough this time that our shoulders touched.
She let them.
The intercom clicked off.
Downstairs, officers managed soup like evidence.
Outside, Titan sat in his car pretending not to have feelings.
Ava was being taken away.
Mimi was somewhere with police, not forgiven but not lost.
Jo was a problem for later.
The studio was a problem for Jen.
The nursery was a crime scene.
The chair would go.
The locks would change.
The photographs existed.
The NICU truth existed.
The voicemail existed.
All of it existed.
And still.
Eleanora lay quiet on Emily's shoulder.
Emily's voice, shaky and imperfect, had calmed her.
I looked at the two of them and felt something inside me give way.
Not break.
Give.
Like a locked door finally deciding it was tired.
Emily noticed my face.
Of course she did.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You're about to cry."
"I have been through a lot."
"So have I, and I'm not making that face."
"You are making a different face."
"What face?"
"The face of someone who just discovered she can sing a baby into not screaming."
Her eyes filled again.
"Hero."
"It's a good face."
She looked down.
Eleanora's fingers were tangled in her jumper.
Emily touched them gently.
"She stayed," Emily whispered.
I knew what she meant.
Not Ava.
Not herself.
Eleanora.
Crying.
Hurting.
Overwhelmed.
She stayed in Emily's arms.
"Yes," I said.
Emily's chin trembled.
"And so did I."
My throat tightened so hard I could barely answer.
"Yes."
She nodded once.
Like she was filing the fact somewhere important.
Then she leaned, just slightly, until her shoulder pressed more firmly against mine.
I stayed still.
Not because I didn't want more.
Because this was more.
Outside the flat, footsteps climbed the stairs.
Officer Grant knocked again.
"Food delivery checked and cleared."
Emily closed her eyes.
"Imagine explaining this day to someone."
I looked at our daughter.
Then at Emily.
Then at the door.
"I don't think anyone would believe us."
Emily opened her eyes.
"They don't have to."
I smiled carefully.
"No."
She looked down at Eleanora.
"We know."
Officer Grant knocked once more.
This time, Eleanora did not wake.
Emily did not flinch.
And for the first time since Ava's voice had crackled through the rear intercom, the silence afterwards did not feel like waiting for the next blow.
It felt like a pause.
A small one.
Ten minutes wide.
But ours.