Free Daughters for a Time by Jennifer Handford

the big items: stroller, crib, dresser, car seat—impersonal items that could be returned if we ended up empty-handed. Still in their boxes, I lined them against the wall in the baby’s pale-yellow room.
    “We need to get some clothes, too,” Claire said.
    “Not yet.” Still superstitious, I needed to stay away from the onesies and the OshKosh overalls and the rubber-footed sleeper suits. Falling in love with a piece of clothing with duck feet seemed like a bad idea. My heart was only so strong.

     
    When Tim got home from work, he found me on the floor of the baby room, lying on my back, taking in the scent of lavender sachets and the crisp air from the open windows.
    “For her room,” Tim said, holding something behind his back.
    “What is it?” I asked, seeing the corners of a frame.
    “I found this saying on the Internet,” Tim said. “And I had a guy in Chinatown write it in calligraphy on one side and English on the other.” It read:
    Not flesh of my flesh
Nor bone of my bone
But miraculously, still my own;
You didn’t grow under my heart,
But in it.
    “Oh my God, Tim,” I said, fighting back the rush of emotion. “I love it. I love it so much.” That was the end of me holding myself at a distance. I was all in. If the adoption fell through and I ended up empty-handed, I would just need to die from a broken heart. Another broken heart.
    “You’re going to be a great mom, Helen,” Tim said. “I know you will be.”

Chapter Six

    Spring came and the weather was schizophrenic. A sunny blanket of sun in the seventies one day, cold and windy in the fifties the next, tumultuous downpours the following week. Today was one of the gorgeous days, the kind that made you forgive the long, humid summers and endlessly frigid winters. I had spent the day baking: a rack full of mini caramelized-onion quiches and prosciutto tortes, trays of focaccia, and three cakes. I had also helped Tim cook for the lunch crowd and prepare for dinner. Once my station was cleaned, I slipped out the restaurant’s back door, sat on a crate in the alleyway with a tumbler of iced tea, and watched the sun set. I was exhausted but satisfied, excited but calm. When a cool breeze snaked through my shirt and behind my neck, the feeling was so gentle it almost made me cry.
    After saying good-bye to Tim, I left Harvest and headed to Target to get some of the items we would need for the trip to China as well as a birthday present for Maura, who would turn four in a few days. But my car turned left instead of right and I ended up in the direction of Arlington, parked on the opposite side of the loop across from my father’s house. His LeSabre was under the carport. I grabbed the bag of peanut M&Ms from the glove box, locked the car, and went into the park across the street, finding a seat on a swing.
    My pocket vibrated and I checked my phone. It was Tim.
    “Hi,” I said.
    “I just wanted to tell you that a couple just came in for dinner and they have two little girls from China and they’re really cute. I wish you were here to see them.”
    “That’s awesome,” I said. “I love you.”
    “I love you, too.”
    I once read that girls from broken homes were statistically more likely to choose unsuitable mates than girls from stable homes. The logic was simple: she who knows what a healthy relationship looks like will model that relationship and vice versa. If I had fallen into that statistic, I would have ended up with a cheating husband who walked out on me when times got tough. Instead, I hit the jackpot with Tim and his loving family.
    My boyfriend before Tim, a guy named Charlie, strung me along like an overused fishing lure. Even after the Draconian breakup, during which he had looked me straight in the eyes and said with a shrug, “I just don’t care about you the way you care about me,” he’d still drop by occasionally, clinking two bottles of hefeweizen and a white pizza from Fratelli’s. And although I’d practiced a