“Because you pulled me out of a coffin with your bare hands. Because you fed me when you were hungry yourself. Because your daughter needs a home.”
“I didn’t ask for anything.” “I know. That’s why I’m giving it.” She was quiet for a moment, then said:
“Nobody wants to hire me with a record.” “They will at the plant. I’ve already arranged it. Packaging department.”
“Eight-hour shifts. W-2 job. Daycare for Annie at the company center.” Marina sat down on the mattress and held Annie close.
The baby looked at Gregory with wide eyes and reached for him. “Why are you doing this?” Marina asked. “You don’t even know me.”
Gregory sat down beside her. He was quiet for a while. “I had a daughter,” he said.
“A long time ago. Before Adam. From my first marriage.”
“I was young and stupid. I drank too much. My wife left and took our little girl.”
“She moved away, and I didn’t know where. Later I looked for them. For a long time. Never found them. My daughter would be about your age now.” Marina looked at him without blinking.
“I’m not saying I’m your father,” Gregory said quickly. “That’s not what I mean. I just look at you and think maybe she’s out there somewhere too, alone with a child, and nobody’s helping her.”
Annie grabbed his finger and laughed. The condo was on the third floor, with a balcony overlooking a courtyard lined with tall trees. Fresh beige paint on the walls.
The furniture was simple: bed, dresser, table, chairs. In the kitchen there was a gas stove. In the bathroom, a washing machine and dryer. Marina walked from room to room touching the walls.
At the plant they gave her a uniform, a white coat, and rubber gloves. The work was hard. Eight hours on her feet. Packaging line. Noise. Cold.
But the paycheck came on the fifteenth and the thirtieth. Annie was in the company daycare across the street, and every evening Marina came home to her own place, with keys in her pocket, heat in the radiators, and water from the tap. Gregory stopped by once a week and brought Annie toys.
Simple ones. Nothing fancy. A ball, stacking rings, a stuffed rabbit. He sat at the kitchen table and drank tea.
They didn’t talk much. He told her about the company—how he was rebuilding it, who he’d fired, who he’d hired. She told him about Annie.
She’d started crawling. Her first tooth had come in. She’d learned to hold a spoon. He rarely mentioned Adam. The stroke had been severe, and the right side never recovered.
Adam stayed in the condo he’d bought with his father’s money, cared for by a home health aide. His wife left two weeks later, took her things, and flew south. “Do you visit him?” Marina asked one evening.
