I still wasn’t ready for him to come home.
I watched him more carefully than I wanted to.
Was he helping because he understood?
Or because he was afraid?
One afternoon, while he fed Emma, I picked up my phone.
“Ryan.”
He looked at me.
“Can you take a picture of us?”
He seemed surprised.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I hadn’t had a proper picture with my daughter in weeks.
He handed Emma back to me.
I settled her against my chest.
I was wearing jeans and a shirt that fit.
Not pre-pregnancy jeans.
Not an old dress I was trying desperately to squeeze into.
Clothes that fit the body I had now.
My hair was down.
Emma kept grabbing it.
Ryan took several photos.
“Want to see?”
I held out my hand.
I scrolled.
Then stopped.
Emma was staring straight at the camera.
I was laughing.
My face looked tired.
