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.

on my sofa and covered her with the quilt my mother had made.

Then he handed me a folded piece of paper.

Rachel had requested unsupervised visits.

Not overnight.

Not full custody.

Just three hours every other Saturday.

My first reaction was immediate.

“No.”

Jackson gave a humorless laugh.

“That’s what I said.”

“Good.”

He sat down and leaned forward, elbows on continue reading …