We drove straight to the hospital. Wade was asleep in a plastic chair outside the neonatal unit, still wearing his work jacket. He hadn’t slept in days. When he saw us, his face crumpled like it used to when he was eight. He had lost his job at the grain cooperative in November, then his apartment in December. Kayla was already pregnant, and her doctors had found complications in January. He was too ashamed to tell us.

So he moved Kayla into our house, telling himself we’d never need to know. When the prenatal bills started piling up, Jesse offered to help, and Wade let him rent the basement. Jesse had known all along and kept quiet because Wade asked him to. Every dollar had gone to Kayla’s doctors. None of it had gone to Wade. He showed me the receipts on his phone. Then he said he was sorry, and he meant it.

Irene didn’t say a word. She walked to the glass window of the neonatal unit and stared at a tiny girl in a pink knit cap, no bigger than a loaf of bread. Our granddaughter. I stood beside them and couldn’t speak. Then Irene turned around and hugged Wade so hard he nearly lost his balance. “You should have called us,” she said. “That’s what family is for.”

Wade, Kayla, and baby Rose live with us now, with a written plan and a move-out date we all agreed on. Rose is home and healthy, and she sleeps in Wade’s old crib. Wade refunded every dollar of Jesse’s rent once he started a new job at the implement dealer in April. Jesse found his own apartment across town and still comes by for Sunday supper. And Leland stops over most mornings, pretending he’s checking on the African violets. Kayla actually waters them.