A few weeks after the funeral, I made the difficult and weighty decision to tell my parents the truth about Lydia's baby daddy.

I didn't want to do it, especially so soon after my sister's passing, but the secrets and lies were eating me alive. Lydia and I had kept Gray's identity from Mom and Dad from the very beginning of her pregnancy, opting instead to tell them that my sister had gotten knocked up from a one night stand with a stranger.

But I knew, in my heart of hearts, if Gray was ever going to have a chance at being a real father to Stevie, if we were ever going to become a functioning family for Stevie, my parents deserved to know the truth about him, and the longer I kept this shit from them, the more it would hurt everyone later on.

I thought Mom would grow hysterical and Dad would lose his shit when I told them about Gray, but, in a most unexpected way, my parents barely said anything at all. I think they were in a state of shock—both from Lydia's death and the bombshell I just dropped on them. They became disturbingly quiet and simply accepted the fucked up implications of this reality with a weary-eyed acceptance.

In the agonizing months following Lydia's death, my parents extended their stay to help out with Stevie, but, eventually, they returned to Florida.

The three of us never discussed what happened between Lydia and Gray again.

I had bigger problems to worry about as well.

I had no fucking clue how I was going to handle a newborn and a full-time job without anyone's help. However, I didn't have the heart to ask my parents to stay any longer. Dad's blonde hair had turned completely white shortly after Lydia's funeral. Mom couldn't stop crying at every little thing that reminded her of my sister. The two of them combined probably aged a total of twenty years, at least, during this time.

After my parents left Arizona, Stevie became my whole world, and I became hers. My entire life revolved around her tiny existence.

Everything else became secondary.

Every now and then, I would go a day or two without showering. On those days, I simply felt too beaten down to bother with good hygiene. The overwhelming desire to sleep and sleep and sleep easily trumped all my other needs on Maslow's hierarchy. Between going to work and taking care of Stevie, I no longer had the energy to put on makeup in the mornings, let alone focus on my personal well-being. My hair was often tied up in a perpetually haphazard-looking bun, and my mental and emotional state yo-yoed continuously between the five stages of grief.

On most days, I wanted to curl up in a tiny ball on the floor and simply pass out from sheer exhaustion, but I didn't because Stevie always needed something from me. An emergency bath from diaper blowouts. A warm bottle in the middle of the night. A burping session after each of those feeding sessions. A sweet, loving cuddle to soothe her cries and fears whenever this big, scary, new world became too much for her to handle.

I worried about every little bump and rash that appeared on her body.

I worried about her while she was at daycare.

I even worried about her goddamn poop.

Before Stevie, never did I imagine myself obsessing over a tiny human's bowel movements as much as I did right now.

Was she pooping too much?

Why hadn't she pooped in two days?

Was it normal for her poop to look so green?

Needless to say, there was always something new for me to worry about and Google fanatically in the middle of these maternal panic attacks.

Becoming Stevie's main caretaker was probably the hardest fucking thing I'd ever done in my life. Yet, in many ways, it was also the most rewarding experience ever.

Stevie always slept and napped best on my chest. Skin to skin. In these quiet, calm moments, I'd fall in love with her ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes over and over again. She was mine to protect, mine to love, and mine to cherish.

I'd never experienced an all-encompassing affection for another human being like this before—not with any lover or friend or family member. I'd be willing to die for Stevie. It was a blessing and a curse—a strange, fucked up phenomenon—to be able to love so unconditionally while nursing a grieving heart at the exact same time.

Around this time, Gray also became a regular fixture in my new routine. He started calling once a week after I told him about Lydia, and I forced myself to speak to him out of necessity. He was still Stevie's father, after all. I updated him on all of Stevie's doctor's visits, her vaccines, her growth percentiles, the frequency, color, and consistency of her poops...

But I refused to talk to him about anything else.

He always tried, of course, to ask about me, about how I was doing...

Gray even tried to talk to me about Lydia.

I wasn't ready to let him in, though. I steeled my heart against him. I'd go silent on the line and wait until he switched the subject back to Stevie before speaking up again.

I was being a bitch. I was being immature. I knew I couldn't keep avoiding these conversations with him, but something maniacal kept driving me to drive him away.

To his credit, Gray didn't give up—nor did he give in.

When Gray called me the following week, this time, he made it clear that I wouldn't be able to avoid him forever.

"I intend to move back to Phoenix, Gracie," he said in a tight voice.

I was well aware that moving back to Phoenix had been Gray's intention all along, but I never allowed myself to think too deeply about it.

Just to be difficult, I chose to play dumb. "Why?"

"To be closer to Stevie and you, of course," Gray answered quietly. "I know this shit has been insanely hard on you. I want to help. Let me help."

My heart twisted in a strange, painful way. "When are you... coming back... to be exact?"

"My deployment ends in three weeks," he stated curtly. "I'll be on the first flight out to Phoenix once I'm cleared to travel."

"I see."

"I can't wait to meet Stevie," Gray murmured.

"She's excited to meet you, too," I offered begrudgingly.

There was a pause on the line.

"I can't fucking wait to see you, either."

Then, Gray abruptly hung up without even saying 'goodbye'—as though he didn't want to give me a chance to shoot him down.

My breath caught as I set down my phone. I willed myself not to be moved by his words, but the butterflies inside my stomach fluttered, nonetheless.

Three weeks.

Gray would be back... in my life... in three weeks... in a very permanent way.

Fuck, I needed a drink.