Chapter 22: Car Seat

Piper's POV

They discharged my daughter on a Wednesday at noon, at four pounds, nine ounces.

She weighed less than the bag of diapers they sent home with me.

A nurse walked me through the car seat rules at the curb.

Chin off the chest, straps at the shoulders, no puffy coat.

The seat was gray with a white lining, still creased from the box.

I had not bought it.

Garrett stood beside the nurse in the cold with his hands at his sides.

"I got it in September," he said. "Before. I kept it in my trunk, and I couldn't stop looking at it."

"It's the right one," the nurse said. "It passed the angle test."

I looked at him.

"Thank you," I said, because it was true, and because I'd decided a long time ago not to lie to him.

"I want to ask for something," he said. "You can say no."

"Ask."

"Let me be her father."

I waited.

"I'm not asking to come home. I'm not asking you to take me back. I'm asking you to tell me the rules, and I'll follow every one."

Jonas stood a few steps away, by his truck, with the baby bag over his shoulder.

He was not watching Garrett. He was watching me, and he'd have let me say anything.

I had practiced this in the mirror, too.

"You'll sign the divorce papers," I said. "Today, before we leave this curb."

I took them out of my coat.

They were folded in thirds, with tabs on the lines.

He didn't argue. He took the pen from my hand.

"You'll see her one hour every Saturday," I said. "At the library, in the children's room, with Delaney or a friend of mine in the chair beside you."

"Okay."

"No overnights until she's two. No visits at your mother's house, ever. You will not let Marjorie within a hundred feet of her."