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Weeks later, the lawyer called.
It wasn’t a perfect ending.
But it was a beginning.
It wasn’t much—two bedrooms, a small kitchen, thin walls—but it was ours.
That first night, we sat on the floor eating takeout, surrounded by boxes, while both babies finally slept.
“Not even close,” I said.
“We’re going to be okay,” I said.
From the other room, Noah stirred.
A second later, Maya cried out too.
Two different lives.
But this time, neither of them—and neither of us—were alone.