I had my own car and a job downtown. Every morning I took the train from Oshawa to Union Station, then walked through the underground shops to King and Adelaide. The routine felt like proof I was doing it right. This was what normal people did. They had cars and jobs and commutes. They didn't stand out. The train was packed most mornings. I stood near the doors with my bag pressed against my side, watching other commuters read newspapers or stare at nothing. Some of them wore suits. Some carried briefcases. I tried to match their posture, their blank professional faces. No one looked at me. That felt like success. The underground tunnel stretched from Union Station all the way to my building. I walked past shop windows and benches, past people buying coffee or waiting for someone. The fluorescent lights made everyone look tired. I kept my eyes forward and my steps even. If I walked like I knew where I was going, maybe I looked like I belonged there. But every morning at the elevator, I felt it. The moment when I had to step into the building with everyone else who worked there. The women in good shoes and the men with watches. They all seemed to fit. I pressed the button and waited, trying not to take up too much space near the doors. No one said hello. No one said anything. I told myself that was fine. That silence meant I wasn't doing it wrong.

My sister called on a Tuesday night. She was at the hospital. The baby was coming early. I drove there after work without changing out of my office clothes, my hands tight on the wheel the whole way. I sat in the waiting room for three hours. Other people came and went. They all seemed to know what to do with their hands, where to look, how to sit. I kept the stuffed bear I'd bought in my bag. I'd picked it out two weeks ago and kept it hidden in my closet, afraid buying it too early would jinx something. Now it felt stupid. Too small. Not the right gift for this. When they finally let me in, my sister looked exhausted and perfect at the same time. The baby was tiny, wrapped tight in a hospital blanket. My sister asked if I wanted to hold her. I said yes before I could think about it. She put the baby in my arms and told me her name. The weight was so light it scared me. I looked down at this tiny face and something clicked into place that had been loose my whole life. Two days later I went to their bungalow to help them come home. There was a carriage on the front step that someone had dropped off. Inside, the house smelled like coffee and new laundry. My sister handed me the baby while she went to lie down. I sat on the couch with her, this perfect small person who didn't care that I was awkward or that I never knew what to say. She just needed me there. For the first time, I wasn't trying to fit into a space that might not want me. I was the space someone else needed.

I stayed at my sister's house for almost two weeks. Every morning I woke up on her couch and listened for the baby crying. When she did, I got up and changed her or walked her around the living room until my sister was ready to feed her. I learned how to hold a bottle at the right angle and how to tell the difference between tired crying and hungry crying. My sister said I was good at this. I believed her. But then the itching started. First on my stomach, then my back, then everywhere. I thought it was just the couch, maybe the detergent my sister used. By the third day the spots appeared and my sister saw them before I did. She said I had to go home. The baby couldn't be around chicken pox. I packed my bag and left before lunch. She didn't hug me goodbye. I spent the next week and a half alone in my apartment. The calamine lotion sat on my bathroom counter in three bottles because I kept running out. I wasn't supposed to go anywhere or see anyone. My sister called once to check on me but kept it short. She didn't bring the baby to the phone. I thought about Canada's Wonderland, about the trip I'd gone on right before the spots showed up, and how stupid I'd been to think I could just be a normal person doing normal things. Now I was stuck here while my niece learned new things without me. On the tenth day the spots started to fade and I called my sister to ask when I could come back. She said the doctor told her two weeks minimum, maybe longer. She said her friend from work had been coming over to help instead. Her voice sounded fine when she said it. Not sorry, not missing me. Just matter-of-fact. I told her I understood and hung up. I looked at the empty lotion bottles lined up on the counter and knew what I'd always known: the second you start to belong somewhere, something pulls you back out.