Invisible String

60

The morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains as we pulled into the foster care agency’s parking lot. My heart was pounding, a mix of excitement and nerves twisting inside me like a rollercoaster.

Travis reached over, squeezing my hand. “You ready for this?”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “More than ready.”

Inside, the waiting room was quiet, a few families chatting softly and workers moving about with purpose. We signed some papers, then were led down a hallway to a small, warmly decorated room.

And there she was.

Ivy.

A tiny bundle swaddled in a soft cream blanket, her dark eyes blinking slowly as she looked up at us.

My breath hitched.

Travis smiled softly, crouching down to her level. “Hey there, Ivy.”

She gave a tiny coo, and for a moment, the world outside that room didn’t exist.

I reached out carefully, cradling her in my arms. Her skin was soft and warm, and she smelled like baby powder and hope.

Lily peeked in behind me, eyes wide. “She’s so small.”

Mira toddled up, reaching her chubby hands toward Ivy. Travis lifted Mira into my arms so they could touch fingers gently.

“She’s your sister,” I whispered, tears prickling my eyes.

Travis looked over at me and smiled. “Our family just got a little bigger.”

We spent the next hour talking softly to Ivy, letting her get used to us, and imagining all the moments to come—first steps, first words, first birthday cakes.

As we left the agency, carrying Ivy carefully in a car seat, I felt a weight lift off my chest.

We were home. All of us. Together.

The clock read 2:47 a.m. when Ivy’s soft whimper turned into a full-blown wail, piercing through the silence of the house.

I blinked awake, heart pounding. Travis groaned beside me, rubbing his face. We were up in an instant, stumbling out of bed and half-running down the hall like we’d done this a thousand times — except we hadn’t. Not with formula. Not with a brand-new baby we’d just brought home.

“I’ve got her,” I whispered, rushing ahead as Travis veered toward the kitchen.

Ivy’s cries were frantic now, her tiny fists flailing in the air as I scooped her up from the bassinet. “Shhh, it’s okay. I’ve got you, baby girl. I’ve got you.” I rocked her gently, pacing back and forth across the nursery floor, the cold hardwood against my bare feet.

Down the hall, I heard cabinet doors open and slam, followed by a muffled, “Where’s the damn scoop?”

“Check inside the formula can!” I called out, bouncing Ivy in my arms. Her wails only grew louder, desperate and shrill in the dark.

Travis appeared a few seconds later with the canister in one hand and the scoop finally in the other, squinting at the tiny label on the back. “Okay—okay—it says two ounces of water per one scoop? Wait, or is it one scoop for every two ounces? Does that mean one scoop for two ounces or two scoops for four?”

“Travis!” I shot him a look. “Just read it out loud!”

He cleared his throat, holding the can closer to his face. “For every two fluid ounces of water, add one unpacked level scoop of formula.” He looked up, eyes wide. “Okay. I think I’ve got it.”