The foundation apartment was small, bright, and peaceful.
It had clean sheets, a stocked kitchen, and a little balcony where I could see the tops of maple trees.
For the first time in weeks, I slept without fear.
Graham did not hover. He did not control. He simply made sure I had what I needed.
A doctor.
A nutritionist.
A lawyer to review the divorce.
A counselor who let me say Cole’s name until it stopped feeling like a wound.
At first, I expected the kindness to disappear.
But it didn’t.
Every week, Graham visited the foundation and checked on everyone, not just me. He remembered names. He brought books for children. He repaired things himself when maintenance was slow.
One afternoon, he found me struggling to assemble three cribs.
He removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and said, “I’m better with furniture than emotions.”
I smiled for the first time in months.
Piece by piece, the nursery came together.
Three cribs.
Three blankets.
Three little name cards.
Oliver.
Noah.
Lily.
I chose the names myself.
Cole never asked.
As my due date approached, fear returned.
What if something went wrong?
What if I couldn’t do this alone?
One night, I admitted that to Graham.
He listened, then said, “Brooke, alone is not the same thing as unsupported. You are not alone anymore.”
I held onto those words all the way into the delivery room.
