Page 116 of Office Hours
We keep walking, the late afternoon turning gold around the edges. The world is small for a few minutes—just us, the baby, and the mystery of what happens when girls grow up and start making choices nobody can fix for them.
But I tuck the story of Andie and Thomas Moreland away, a secret for a future day. For now, I just want to walk the long road home with the people who need me most.
Our new house doesn’t have a white picket fence, but it might as well. The front walk is lined with tulip bulbs that I planted when I was newly pregnant and convinced that “nesting” was a real thing, not just the collective hallucination of the baby-industrial complex. There’s a little swing on the porch, and a mat that says WELCOME in bold sans-serif, which makes me smile every time I see it, even though I bought it ironically.
Inside, the evening glows with the soft conspiracy of dimmed lamps and the scent of coconut shampoo rising from Emmy’s head as she fusses through her last feeding. I’m always amazed at how much space a baby can occupy—her playpen blocks the TV, her bottles claim real estate on every countertop, her toys land wherever the laws of entropy demand. Still, this is the life I wanted, even on days when it feels like a beautiful siege.
Liam cleans up the kitchen with the methodical grace of a man who believes in small rituals. He catches me watching from the hallway, and winks, then gestures up the stairs. “Go. I’ll finish here.”
I take Emmy to her room. The walls are painted the color of butter, each corner filled with stuffed animals—lions, rabbits, a flock of iridescent songbirds suspended from the mobile that Andie made by hand one fevered winter break. I settle into the rocker, the fabric faded from years of sun, and feed Emmy her bottle as she stares at me with clear blue eyes that are nobody’s but her own.
She’s asleep in minutes. I lay her gently in the crib, tuck the knit blanket around her legs, and tiptoe to the door. I linger, just a second, and watch her chest rise and fall, the simple miracle of breath and safety. For a long time, I didn’t believe I’d ever have this—a room, a baby, a night unbroken by panic. The hush is complete. Even the old floorboards seem to agree to keep their secrets.
Back downstairs, Liam is waiting in the foyer. He’s swapped his cardigan for a threadbare Henley, arms crossed over his chest, looking less like a poet and more like a man ready to weather any storm. He beckons me into his study.
The study smells of leather and paper and a hint of the cologne he only wears for me. The walls are lined floor-to-ceiling with books; some are arranged by color, most by obsession. On the desk is a manila envelope, unassuming except for the weight it seems to radiate.
He closes the door behind me, the latch clicking softly.
“I have something for you,” he says, voice stripped of all pretense.
I cross the room, my heart spiking with the old animal sense of news—good or bad, I can never tell until the story is over.
He slides the envelope to me. “You remember when you asked me to stop looking?”
I do. Months ago, back when the pregnancy was new and all I could think about was not dying, not disappointing anyone, not falling apart. Back when I asked him—begged him—to stop searching for my brother, to let the past rest where it lay.
“I know you said you didn’t want to know,” he says, “but I couldn’t let it go.”
I stand there, the envelope between my hands, the edge digging into my thumb.
Liam steps forward, crowding my space, as if to catch me if I tip. “You can open it. Or not. It’s your call.”
For a long time, I just hold the thing. It’s heavier than it looks.
Then I break the seal, slow, like I’m afraid of cutting what’s inside.
The first page is a letter from a private investigator in Milwaukee. I skim, picking out words: James Andrew McCall, a bartender at a place called Molly O’Martin. My vision tunnels, everything else washed out except the black-and-white photo clipped to the next sheet.
It’s Jimmy.
Not a boy anymore, but a man—older, tan, a beard where there never was one. He’s behind the bar at some place with a neon sign, smiling at the camera, arm slung around a girl with green hair and a tattoo sleeve. The photo isn’t staged. It’s candid, a moment ripped from the blur of someone’s real, ongoing life.
My little brother looks happy.
I press a palm to my mouth and sit down hard in the nearest chair. I don’t realize I’m crying until the paper blurs.
Liam kneels in front of me, rests his hands on my knees, and waits.
After a minute, I manage: “He’s alive. He’s really okay.”
Liam nods, his own eyes wet.
“Did you—did you contact him?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “That’s up to you. I just wanted you to know he made it.”
I pull him into a hug, my face buried in his neck, and he holds me tight, tight enough to anchor me to the room, to the house, to the life we’ve built from nothing.
