The kitchen tile was freezing against my bare feet, and the heavy smell of bacon grease mixed with burnt coffee and the sour scent of a baby bottle that had stayed too long in a mug of hot water.

His tiny cheek was warm against my T-shirt, his little fingers knotted into the stretched-out collar of my shirt, and his breath came in those small, irregular sighs that only a newborn can make.

I had been awake since midnight.

Mark’s parents were scheduled to arrive at eight o’clock.

His sister had sent a text at 1:17 a.m. to remind me that their mother preferred her eggs soft and her toast dry.

She had worded it exactly like a work order.

Just a list of instructions, sent to a woman who had given birth only eight weeks ago and who still moved through the house as if her body had not completely healed yet.