Page 238 of Say My Name

“I heard him,” Maya says.

The baby grabs a loose piece of Elena's hair and pulls.

“Ow. Okay, we're done with that.” Elena carefully opens the small fist. “Maya, I'll call you tomorrow morning. Send anything urgent to my work email. If it can wait, let it.”

She ends the call and leaves her laptop closed.

I watch her rub her nose against our baby’s cheek, getting sweet potato on her face, and think about the woman who will walk into the office tomorrow and be the sharpest person in the room. She’ll challenge my recommendations in front of the board and tell the independent committee my projections are too aggressive. We keep our disclosures updated and my recusal absolute, but this is the truth of it: the woman with a board of directors wrapped around her finger is right here, with a smear of orange puree on her chin.

I hand her another cloth and watch her wipe a smear of sweet potato off her own face. “Bath?”

She looks at the food covering the baby's hands, sleeper, and half of her jacket. “That seems necessary.”

“I'll do it.”

“We’ll do it.” That one word—we—still hits me with the force of a physical blow. It’s the simplest term in our contract, and the one that took the longest to mean this.

I take the baby while Elena removes her jacket. One small hand immediately catches my tie and shoves the end into a damp mouth.

“That tie was expensive,” Elena says.

“I own others.” I echo her earlier words, and the sound of her laugh is the only validation I need.

She laughs and follows us upstairs.

One bath, two bedtime books, and three attempts at the same lullaby take forty-three minutes. By the end, all three of us are tired; only one is asleep.

Elena stands beside the crib with one hand on the rail. Her hair is down now; she’s replaced her suit with soft black pants and one of my T-shirts. She watches our child sleep while the monitor on the dresser sends a quiet hiss through the room.

I slide my hand around her waist. “Come downstairs.”

“I want to make sure.”

“We've been making sure for seven minutes.”

“One more.”

I stay with her.

She leans back against me, and I kiss her temple. The baby turns toward the side of the crib, releases a small sigh, and settles deeper.

Elena finally lets me lead her into the hall.

In the kitchen, I pour two glasses of water while she opens the refrigerator and inspects the leftovers.

“You cooked,” she says, her voice soft with an exhaustion that has nothing to do with work. “I’ll clean.”

“I already cleaned.”

Her head appears over the door. “When?”

“While you were looking for the blue pajamas.” I don’t tell her I like it—these small acts of order in the chaos. Loading the dishwasher feels like an anchor in the day.

“I didn't find them.”

“They're in the dryer.”

“Why?”