Ten days after my C-section, my mother-in-law poured cold water over me because I wouldn’t get up and make breakfast while my husband watched.

A previous client referred me to a company in Waterloo that needed a full brand identity project.

The scope was significant.

So was the budget.

I had the first call from my kitchen table while my mother walked Leo around the living room.

The project moved forward.

Then the contract came through.

I worked harder than I had in months, but the work felt different now.

There was no tension about where the money would go.

No fear that another gambling debt might suddenly appear.

No vague conversation about what Wade needed.

I knew what my accounts contained.

I knew what my bills were.

I knew what I was building.

When the final transfer arrived, I opened my banking app at the kitchen table.

Then I just stared.

It was the largest single payment I had ever received for one project.

My mother came into the room holding Leo.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“That isn’t your nothing face.”

I turned the phone toward myself so she couldn’t see the screen, not because I was hiding it, but because I needed one more second with the moment.

“I got paid.”

“For the Waterloo project?”

I nodded.

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

Her face opened into a smile.

“Well?”

I laughed.

“I think I’m in shock.”

“You earned it.”

That sentence stayed with me.

You earned it.

Not we needed it.

Not someone else had already spent it.

Not it had arrived just in time to rescue us from something.

I had done the work.

The money had arrived.

And it was simply mine to manage.

A few days later, I took my mother to King Street.

There was a wool coat she had admired for years.

The good one.

Every time we had passed the shop, she had looked at it and then found a reason not to go inside.

Too expensive.

Not necessary.

Her old coat still worked.

There was always another reason.

That day, I walked into the store.

She stopped outside.

“Ivy.”

“Come on.”

“What are you doing?”

“Buying something.”

“You do not need anything in there.”

“I do.”

She followed me reluctantly.

When I pointed at the coat, she immediately shook her head.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s a late Christmas present.”

“Christmas was months ago.”

“I’m aware.”

“Ivy, that coat is ridiculous.”

“So were the number of bananas you brought me after I threw my husband out.”

She stared at me.

Then she laughed.

I bought the coat.

My mother cried.

Then I cried because she was crying.

Leo sat between us on the floor later, chewing on one of his stacking cups and looking completely unimpressed by the emotional significance of outerwear.

Life didn’t suddenly become perfect after Wade left.

There were still hard nights.

There were deadlines.

There were legal details I had been relieved to put behind me.

There were moments when Leo made an expression that looked so much like Wade that it caught me off guard.

There were times I wondered where Wade was in Alberta and whether he had kept his promise to himself.

I never went looking for the answer.

In April, Toronto finally began to feel like it was releasing winter.

Morning light came through the condo windows differently.

Softer.

Warmer.

There was a brightness in the rooms that had been missing for months.

Leo had become obsessed with pulling himself upright.

The couch.

My legs.

The coffee table.

Anything within reach became an opportunity.

That morning, I was sitting on the floor while he held the edge of the coffee table.

My mother was in the kitchen.

Leo looked at me.

His little fingers loosened.

“Careful,” I said.

He let go.

For one second, he simply stood there.

His eyes widened as if he had surprised himself.

Then he moved one foot.

A step.

Another.

Then another.

Four steps.

Wobbly, uneven, determined little steps straight across the rug.

Then he dropped onto his bottom.

There was a half-second of silence.

Leo burst into delighted laughter.

I was beside him almost immediately.

“Oh my God.”

I lifted him.

“You walked.”

He laughed harder.

I pressed my face into his hair.

“Mom!”

My mother came out of the kitchen.

“What?”

“He walked.”

“What?”

“He walked. Four steps.”

She dropped onto the rug beside us in her good wool socks.

“Show Grandma.”

Leo grabbed my nose.

I laughed.

My mother laughed.

We put him back near the coffee table.

He pulled himself up again.

For a moment, as I watched him, another morning came back to me.

Ten days after he had been born.

Cold water.

Wet pajamas.

His frightened cry.

Roberta standing beside the bed.

Wade in the doorway.

That small expression on his face.