“I will call you back.”
He ended the call.
“What did she say?”
“She wants to know if you have opened the folder.”
I put my phone down.
“She already knows I have it.”
Daniel stared at the phone in his hand.
“I did not tell her.”
Neither of us spoke for a second.
Then he said, “I should have asked her how she knew.”
I looked at the blue folder.
“Call her back.”
He did not.
Instead, he carried the second car seat into the garage.
I followed him with the folder under my arm.
By 8:45, the living room table held the blue folder, my photograph of its cover, and a grocery receipt for 83.17 dollars that had been under the kitchen magnet for three days. Daniel came through the front door carrying his coat and set his keys in the bowl.
“What did she say?” I asked.
He sat down.
“She said it is just family paperwork.”
I opened the folder.
“That is what she told you?”
“Yes.”
“Did she explain the blank child’s name?”
“No.”
“Did she explain why my signature is on the page?”
“No.”
I turned the first sheet over.
“Did she say what happens if I refuse?”
Daniel looked at me.
“She said there is nothing to refuse.”
I placed the paper flat on the table.
“Then why is there a signature line?”
He rubbed his wedding ring
with his thumb.
“I should have asked.”
“You did ask.”
“I asked the wrong question.”
I looked at him.
“What question should you have asked?”
He took a long breath.
“Why does Mom think she gets to decide where our child belongs?”
I did not answer.
Daniel looked toward the stairs.
“She keeps talking about the Sterling family.”
“That is not the same as parental rights.”
“I know.”
He picked up the second page.
“What does temporary family arrangement mean?”
“It could mean several things.”
“Could it mean she wants to help?”
“Maybe.”
He looked relieved for half a second.
Then I turned to the final page.
There was a line for the name of the person receiving temporary care.
