Carefully.
Every page initialed.
One Saturday, she handed me a single sheet of paper at the end of a long afternoon.
A standard co-parenting schedule.
Three paragraphs.
At the bottom, in blue ink, she had added a circled E.
“Read the last page first,” she said.
“That’s how I do it.”
“There’s only one page,” I said.
“Then you have no excuse,” she said.
I read it.
Every other weekend, the babies at my house.
Wednesdays, supper at hers.
And at the bottom, under her initials, in handwriting a little smaller than the rest, one more line.
Saturdays, on the bench, as long as you like.
I looked up.
Emily was already walking toward the diner next door, Owen on her hip, Ruby riding on my chest.
She stopped at the door and fished in her pocket.
A twenty-dollar bill, clean and crisp, from her own wages.
She held it out to me with the smallest smile I have ever seen.
