Marcus asked me last week if Grandma and Daddy were fighting. I told him we were working some things out and that it had nothing to do with him. He nodded like he was older than eight and went back to his homework.

That’s the thing about kids who have been through a lot already. They learn to read the room early. He’s been reading rooms since he was three years old.

I don’t know where this ends up. I really don’t. I hope Darnell and I can figure out something that doesn’t blow up what little co-parenting relationship we have, because Marcus needs us both, or at least he needs me and he needs his dad not to be completely absent. But I also can’t pretend the last few months didn’t happen. The sign-out logs are sitting in a folder in my kitchen drawer. I look at them sometimes. Eight Fridays. Eight times I didn’t know where my grandbaby was.

Some days I think I handled all of this okay. Other days I wonder if I’m about to make something much harder for a little boy who already has enough hard things. I don’t have a clean answer. I’m just trying to do right by him, same as I’ve been doing since he was three years old, and hoping that counts for something.