But Raymond literally drove me to every court date. He sat beside me in the hallway outside the judge’s chambers, holding my hand when my knee wouldn’t stop bouncing.
Months later, Judge Marsh looked up from the papers, and I’ll never forget the softness in her voice.
“They’re yours, Kim. Congratulations.”
I named them Caleb and Noah and cried the whole drive home.
The years didn’t ask permission before flying by.
Caleb learned to walk first, but Noah was the one who wouldn’t stop climbing furniture. Christmas mornings turned into a blur of wrapping paper and hot chocolate.
There were scraped knees I bandaged in the driveway. School plays where I clapped too loudly. Teenage arguments about curfews that ended with slammed doors and, eventually, apologies whispered through them.
And Raymond. Always Raymond.
Sitting in the front row at every recital. Teaching Noah to drive after I said I couldn’t stomach it. Standing behind me in the kitchen the night both college acceptance letters arrived, resting a hand on my shoulder as I read them out loud.
