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When I heard the story, I was furious. Give her up for adoption? What the fuck is wrong with people?

This woman’s reaction and many others left me with the rankling feeling that I had something to prove. Not just to those close to me, but also to the world, because I knew I would forever be judged as being incapable, if not totally incompetent—unless I was great. I had to be better than great. I was going to be the best fucking father there ever was.

And that was my promise to myself and to Madeline.

I pulled out of the hospital driveway and headed toward the freeway, completely alone with Madeline for the first time. No doctors, no nurses, no friends, no family. I thought about how this moment should have gone. Liz should have been in the back—one hand on the car seat, the other hand making sure Madeline’s head wasn’t bouncing around—telling me to be gentler as I downshifted. She should have been here, cooing at our daughter and relaying her every reaction to me. But my wife isn’t here, I thought, snapping back to reality.

There were several other routes home I could have chosen to take, but I felt compelled to drive past where Liz’s funeral had been held—I don’t know if I was delusional or just feeling sadistic. As soon as I saw the parking lot, I began crying and shaking uncontrollably. If this wasn’t a kick to the nuts, I don’t know what would have been. Driving under the influence of irrepressible grief was a lot like what it must feel like to drive drunk. I was dizzy and couldn’t see straight. I struggled to regain my composure, gripping the wheel as tight as I could, trying to keep my car headed in a straight line, and doing my best not to get pulled over.

I managed to make it into our neighborhood without incident, and as I drove up the big hill leading to our house, there it was: Liz’s car, parked in its usual spot. Just like every time I had pulled up to the house in the last two weeks, I felt the excitement in my chest that came when I realized Liz was home before me. And every time, it took a second for my brain to catch up with my heart, and then the feeling disappeared as quickly as the exhale from her last breath. I backed my car up to park and felt the resistance of an object behind me.

Fuck. I hit Liz’s car. I’d parked here hundreds of times, and I’d never hit it before. My heart started racing immediately, and with one quick movement I unbuckled my seat belt and lifted myself out of my seat, arching my back to assess the damage I’d done to my child. She was expressionless and in no obvious pain; relief blanketed my body. I knew I was being ridiculous—the impact was barely noticeable—but I was convinced that the slightest misstep would forever damage Madeline. And I would be the only one to blame if something went wrong.

I pulled the car forward a few inches, finally putting it into park just as my dad and Anya both arrived. I would have been fucking mortified if they had witnessed the collision—I didn’t want to put any doubt into the minds of some of my most ardent supporters. I walked around my car to open the back door, and after a few seconds of fumbling for the car seat release, Madeline was out. I felt terrible about hitting Liz’s car. She would have been pretty pissed at me if she had witnessed it. Then I felt sad that I’d no longer have her there to be angry with me for doing stupid shit like bumping her car with mine.

I carried Madeline to the front door, and the instant we walked into the house, it felt different—it felt better. It was less lonely now with Madeline. I’d been in and out of my house several times in the past two weeks, and no matter how many people stood in the living room or the office or the kitchen with me, and no matter who the people were, the house seemed empty. I could feel Liz’s absence, the gravity of her death weighing heavily on my mind and in my heart, but with Madeline next to me, the house felt alive. And so did I, because now that she was home with me, it was time