That night, after the clinic closed and Lily slept on a couch in the living room with a blanket over her knees, Jamie’s small breaths a steady metronome, Mark and I sat on the truck bumper and let our conversation go quiet. We didn’t talk about business or permits or the poured foundation. We talked about the future in the way of people who have accepted a responsibility beyond themselves.
“You did good,” he said finally, turning to look at me in a way that made me feel both seen and seen-through.
“We do good,” I corrected. “We’re a mess, but a competent mess.” We laughed and then fell back on each other’s shoulders. Sometimes humor is the only valid salve.
The week slid by with a tension threaded through it—a lot of meetings, some sleepless nights, and the deep small kindnesses that be
