“You planned this!
You planned this whole thing!”
“No,” I said.
“Running into you was chance.
Being ready wasn’t.”
A social worker had arrived for the baby, and I passed him over as gently as I could.
Delphine’s donor agreement made her his legal mother, and I had already, weeks before, asked the investigators to ensure he could stay with her sister while the case moved through the courts — a stable home, familiar arms.
He was one year old.
Whatever his mother had done, he had done nothing, and I had learned by then what Weston never had: that revenge which requires you to harm an innocent isn’t justice at all.
It’s just cruelty wearing a new coat.