On Noah’s first birthday, Evelyn showed up at my apartment carrying a lopsided chocolate cake. She swore it looked much better before the drive.

My mother came up from Zanesville with a bundle of blue balloons. My friend Tasha from work took pictures while Noah very seriously pushed his entire right hand into the frosting.

There were crumbs all over the floor. Somebody knocked over a cup of coffee on the rug.

Nobody complained. Not once.

Harold Kim came too. He brought Noah a wooden abacus.

“Never too early to start counting,” he said.

That evening, after everybody went home, I sat in the rocking chair by the window with Noah asleep against my chest.

His little fist was tangled in my shirt.

Just like it was that morning in the kitchen. A year ago.

I looked over at my tiny kitchen. One plate waiting in the sink. A little blue sippy cup lying on its side next to what was left of the birthday cake.

For a long time, I just listened to him breathe.

Then I carried him to his crib and laid him down.

I went into my bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of my dresser. The gray folder was in there.

I added the final divorce decree. I squared up the edges. And I closed it.

There was nothing left that night for me to search for.

At 4:30 the next morning, Noah woke up hungry.

I lifted him out of the crib. I warmed his bottle in a mug of hot water by the coffee maker. And I carried him to the kitchen window while the apartment slowly filled with pale, early light.

He drank, watching me over the rim of the bottle with his big brown eyes.

Nobody was coming for breakfast. Nobody needed their eggs soft or their toast dry.

There was no stove to turn off. No one standing in the doorway waiting for me to beg.

When he finished, Noah gave me a sleepy, milky smile.

I kissed his forehead.

And then we went back to bed.

THE END..!