It is Wednesday now. The house feels like it is made of glass. Every step I take feels like it might shatter something important.

I went into the guest room this morning. It is a nice room, painted a soft yellow. I keep it ready for guests who never come. I imagined Maya in the bed. I imagined her little shoes by the door. I felt a sudden, sharp ache in my chest that had nothing to do with my heart and everything to do with my gut.

I know what happens if Danny stays here. He will try to be good. He will try to be the father he thinks he is. But the cycle is a heavy thing. It pulls at you. It takes the oxygen out of the room.

“You’re going to break us,” Gerald said late last night. He was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He didn’t come inside. “If you sign that paper, you are choosing him over our life.”

“I’m choosing his daughter,” I said. My voice sounded small even to me.

“That is a lie,” he said. “You’re choosing to be the martyr again.”

He turned and went to bed. I stayed in the kitchen. I looked at the form. The caseworker needs my answer by Friday. It is a simple document. It asks for my signature to take temporary guardianship. It asks for my commitment to provide a stable home.

Stability. That is a funny word. I don’t know if I have any left to give.

I keep thinking about the day Danny was born. I remember the way the light hit the hospital floor. I remember thinking that I would do anything to keep him safe. And I did. I did everything. I gave him my energy, my money, my patience, and my sanity.

And now here I am. I am seventy-two years old. I have earned the right to sit on my porch and watch the corn grow. I have earned the right to not worry about whether someone is stealing my silver to pay for their next fix.

But then I think of Maya. I think of the way she looks at her father. She looks at him like he is the only person in the world who matters. If I turn them away, I am the one who shuts the door. I am the one who tells the state that she is nobody’s problem.

I have not slept in two days. My head feels like it is filled with heavy sand. Every time I close my eyes, I see that form. I see the blank line where my name should go.

I picked up the pen again a few minutes ago. I looked at the signature line. My hand was shaking so bad I had to put it down. I walked to the window and looked out at the fields. The sun was starting to set, turning the sky a bruised purple.