It was my mother-in-law.
Garrett had called her the moment he realized I had boarded a flight to Chicago, and she had driven four hours and arrived ahead of us, because she had always been faster than sense required. She was standing at the arrivals barrier with a look I recognized from three years of Sunday dinners, the specific expression she wore when she believed she was doing something righteous.
She wanted Wren. Not custody, not legally, she had no grounds for that. She wanted to take her back to Austin that night, and she had constructed a story in her head in which I was unstable and fleeing and incompetent, and if she could just get the baby into her car, the rest would follow. She said this to me, in the arrivals hall, in front of a security officer she had apparently been speaking to for twenty minutes before we landed.
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