I had to get to the living room.

I took slow, shuffling steps, dragging my feet across the hardwood floor.

My pelvic bone throbbed with a dull, heavy ache from the labor three days ago.

Every step felt like pulling my body through wet cement.

I cradled Rowan tighter against my chest, his small head resting in the crook of my elbow.

His skin felt like a radiator left on in July.

I reached the edge of the living room and looked toward the large bay window.

The bright Charlotte sun streamed through the glass, baking the beige carpet.

Across the street, Arthur’s yard was green and perfectly manicured.

I saw a flash of red.

Arthur was standing near his driveway, holding a yellow garden hose.

He wore his old gray t-shirt with the faded Charlotte Fire Department logo on the back.

He was watering his prize-winning rose bushes.

“Arthur,” I choked out, but the sound didn’t even carry to the kitchen.

I pressed forward, my knees shaking under my nursing pajamas.

I reached the bay window and leaned my forehead against the hot glass.