"Go," Zora said. "Be useful in rooms that are not this one. Come home by six. We are going to talk about the birth plan and the mortgage autopay and whether my mother still has access to any shared calendars from the shower planning thread."
Caleb nodded. "I removed her from the group chat last night. I should have asked you first."
"You should have," Camille said, not warmly. "But removing her was correct. Archive yourself while you're at it."
He left with his keys and a face that had aged overnight without permission. When the door shut, Camille slid a mug toward Zora.
"You don't have to be fair to him before noon," Camille said. "Or to Mama. Fairness is not the currency of today."
"I am not being fair," Zora answered. "I am being strategic. Fairness is a luxury for people who are not thirty-seven weeks pregnant with a nursery that still smells like betrayal and a mother who helped put the smell there."
She went upstairs at midmorning, Camille two steps behind. The nursery looked unchanged and entirely changed. White crib. Changing table dresser. Folded blankets. Large plush teddy. Sheer white curtains. Children's drawings. Cardboard boxes. Zora stood in the doorway where her life had cracked and waited for the room to attack her. It did not. Rooms were not that kind.
She set the ultrasound frame on the dresser, then the painted portrait beside it, not hung yet, only placed. Placement was a smaller commitment than hanging. Hanging felt like agreeing that beauty could continue without interruption.
"I hate that she stood here," Zora said. "I hate that I can still smell her lotion. Or maybe I am inventing that. The brain is a liar when it is trying to survive."
"Then we move the crib six inches and wash the rail," Camille said practically. "Not because six inches fixes anything. Because your hands need a job that ends."
They washed the rail. They moved the crib. They opened a box of onesies and refolded them because folding was a language Zora still spoke fluently. Camille found a packet of nipple cream someone had gifted early and set it in the hospital bag without commentary. Outside the window, the street continued its indifference: a delivery van, a child on a scooter, a woman walking a dog that refused to hurry.
Zora's phone buzzed. Ruth. A message that began with Mama as if naming the role were courage.
I will not contact you again after this unless you ask. I am sorry. If you want a written account of what happened for your own clarity, I will provide it. I will stay away from the hospital if that is what you need. I remain your mother. I know that sentence is not comfort right now. — Mama
Zora showed Camille the screen.