I nearly dialed 911 on the tattooed teenager holding a screaming baby inside an empty 1 AM laundromat. Then his bag tore open, and my stomach sank with utter shame.

That evening, after everyone left, Jackson and I sat on the porch while Emma slept upstairs.

Rachel had taken home leftover cake and three handmade cards Emma had forced everyone to draw.

The yard was littered with paper cups and deflated balloons.

I was too tired to clean.

So was Jackson.

He leaned back in the porch chair and looked at the stars.

“Did we continue reading …