It's as if she is seeing them for the first time with her own eyes. That's the beauty of having a child, experiencing regular things with renewed excitement. "Look at that, huh? Look!" Noah's eyes widen as they follow the glossy, floating balls of water and soap that drift into the warm summer air, the light reflecting off their surface in pretty shades. He startles slightly as the first bubble pops, unsure what to think of this odd business, but squeals excitedly when the little girl blows and more bubbles make their appearance. "Wow, look! More bubbles" she exclaims again, not caring how ridiculous she must sound. Noah giggles and starts to struggle against her hands, bouncing slightly in her lap. It's as if he's watching a miracle, and his enthusiasm is beginning to rub off on her. The bubbles pop and again, the most adorable expression of surprise comes to his face. He glances at the little girl in suspicion, that strange magical bubble maker, then looks at his mom, is reassured by her smile, and forgets all about the bubbles. Out of sight, out of mind. She turns him around, making him "stand" on her thighs while holding him, and kisses his cheek.

Bubbles. That is the gift his son, his grown, elementary school age child of a son who requires privacy in the bathroom, has left behind for him. Sometimes, he wonders where the kid got his personality from. He has never met a little boy –or girl, for that matter- who loves taking baths as much as he does. None of his other kids were ever this way, but then again, as Kathy keeps telling him, he was never around as much to see it with any of the older ones. Still, Eli has wreaked the sort of havoc in the bathroom that was once worthy of Kathleen, leaving behind puddles of water, a bottle of shampoo on the floor, a semi-steamy mirror that he has drawn something on, and a wet towel all bunched up on top of the toilet lid where it will never dry. Of course, he has forgotten to turn on the fan to get the steam out, and one look at the half-empty bottle of bubble bath explains the small peaks of foam that still remain in the corner where the bathtub apparently overflowed. What was he trying to do, flood the entire house? His first instinct is to call "Ka-a-th-y-y", but she would bite his head off for it, and rightly so. His second instinct is to call the little Mr. Messy he fathered and play the tough dad card. Maybe he will. Probably not. He is going soft in his old age. "Eli…!"

Mess is everywhere these days and by now, she has stopped even trying to get on top of it. At the beginning, the day to day fight against it bothered her, a struggle of control between her and fate, but at some point, caring about dirty diapers and stains on expensive shirts became a futile exercise in self-torture. She is used to coming home to a clean apartment –clean, because underused- ordering take-out, opening a bottle of wine. Not anymore. Mess isn't only a physical state of being, it's the disintegration of order and routine, of established systems and ways of doing things. Nowadays, it's all about planning, but she doesn't have her routine down yet and at the moment, she's constantly juggling, simply reacting to things without her precious structure. It's a change, being responsible for another person besides herself; if she messes up now, it could hurt a child. She's still in the dark about how on earth she's going to do this. It's a different kind of mess from before though, a kind that requires her constant attention and presence in the moment, not like the kind of mess of the past year that had her drifting through life, surviving, trying all sorts of new things but never sticking with one for too long, fighting, running from memories, thinking, thinking, thinking. There is no time for that now. She has to keep herself together, for him.

He needs to stop thinking. His job suits him, it fits his skills, the routine is fine, the hours are good, the pay is excellent. When Lizzie came home from college last week, she remarked that he seemed "less angry than before", more "chilled", whatever that term was supposed to mean. He should be grateful to have this second career chance after already having one full run behind him. But while he lived that run to the fullest with his first job, bled for it in a way that probably wasn't healthy, in retrospect, lived every second of it, he finds that here is very little blood left in him to pump into this second run. It's not that he's all burned out -"burn-out", there's a term that's nothing but bogus psycho babble- his heart just isn't in it. He often goes through the week completely missing it, to the point where, when it's Friday night and someone asks him how work has been, he can't always remember what he's been doing. He sits at his desk, analyzing CCTV footage, looking at report after report, holding strategy meetings. He tells himself that he is doing something good here, that private companies deserve a safe working environment, too, but no matter how much he pretends to be the hero in someone's story here, he's really just a middle-aged ex-cop advising the big guys on how to keep their property safe. If he does his job badly, yes, security leaks may happen, but in all likelihood, the world wouldn't end because of it. It's not like it used to be. It should be better, but he's not sure that it is. It's just different. He can imagine what she would say about it, if she saw him today: "Private security consultant? Well, there's a fancy term for selling out." She wouldn't say it spitefully, though. Why does he torment himself by even thinking about what she would say?

She needs to stop torturing herself. She gets through most days okay now, and when she keeps busy, when Noah is awake and she's awake and things go as planned, she is fine, even happy. She looks at him, his innocence, sees his little hands reaching out for her, notices how he stops crying when he hears her voice as she approaches, and what she feels is pure love and gratitude. She never thought she could love anyone so much, so unconditionally. She is grateful in those hours of sunshine and warmth, endlessly thankful for this chance for both of them, despite all the tragedy in their lives, despite the death of his mother she wished she could have prevented, despite the guilt and sadness and bad starts. She realizes that this would never have happened if it hadn't been for a strange combination of circumstances, for an unorthodox judge and her being called to this case and Ellie showing up, and sometimes, it feels like it's too many coincidences. She doesn't believe in fate, but she is stunned at how it happened. How life happens. But then she is alone with him, always alone with him, and he gets a tummy ache or is simply cranky, and she can't help him, can't find the patience and well of calm in herself to soothe him, as if she is lacking some sort of core maternal instincts that she supposes real mothers get through this whole pregnancy deal and hormonal changes and all that stuff she never paid much attention to. And she knows it's bullshit, in her rational moments, she fully realizes that there are plenty of bad biological parents, that the first months of life aren't everything and a lot is still out in the open, but still, she can't help feeling that she is somehow "less than", or not the real deal. He deserves better. She doesn't bake cookies and knit socks. Except she can't tell anyone that, or confide that she's afraid, or that she doesn't always know what he wants from her, because then they might take him away from her. They might be proven right.

Kathleen does yoga now, as if to prove that she's this whole new person. He tries to be supportive and listens to her ramblings on ashtangas and philosophical underpinnings and "no, Dad, it's not just stretching". He's been supportive Dad for the past fifteen minutes. Can he please get more coffee here, right this minute? He is glancing around the café impatiently, watching those young people in really ugly, layered clothes who wear hats in June sipping their five Dollar fair-trade coffee, and once again, it's as if he has stopped understanding the world. He wonders why, if yoga is all about returning the mind to "original silence", all Kathleen is doing is talking about it non-stop. He tells her he's glad she's found something that makes her happy, and she tells him, with the most serene expression, that life isn't about being happy all the time. He supposes she is right about that, and the way she says it, so mature and serious, makes him yearn for the girl who snuck out of the house after midnight to dance in the snow. But only a little. He doesn't love this idea of her running off to join the Peace Corps, not when she should be building a career, settling down, figuring out her life. He wonders just how much of it may be a slight defiance of his own previous military engagement. She says she's ready, that she is finished with therapy, but will continue taking her meds, that she has talked it over with her doctor, that she has been working up to this for a long, long time, gathering her required volunteer hours. She says they wouldn't have accepted her if they thought she weren't up for the job, she tells him not to worry, that it will be a good experience for her, enriching. She tells him she has money saved up and even already got her vaccinations, including yellow fever, as if it's supposed to reassure him that his daughter is travelling to a place where there is yellow fever. He wants to keep her close. But this isn't about what he wants.

She still wants things. She should be content, so utterly overwhelmed by gratitude and happy to be alive and well and to get what she wanted, but she still wants more. Dreaming has never been of much use to her, and she has only learned very late to allow it. And once she allowed it, she made certain decisions – decisions about her job, decisions about her privacy, decisions about surviving after Lewis, decisions about moving, decisions about ending what could have been a loving, long-term relationship. She might well have had the real deal in an amicable, supportive boyfriend, no big Romeo and Juliet romance perhaps (but Romeo and Juliet died in the end), but someone to come home to, a life of companionship with someone who got what she did for a living. But she will not second guess that now, because she made a hard decision based on the dream of more. Well, now she has more, now she has what she wanted. And she still wants more. She wants to be a good mother most of all, to have a permanent home, to not have all that taken away again. A part of her also wants those boring, traditional things, components of the life she never thought she would lead, like a man at her side she can share things with, although she's not sure exactly how much sharing she's capable of. She wants someone to laugh with her, someone to be there when Noah says his first words or takes his first steps. She isn't ready for that right now, doesn't have the energy or the nerve for it, she doesn't even look at men that way right now…but someday, maybe, someday, she will be. Someday, she will let someone in again. If it's not too late. She will love again.

Love. It's a complicated business. He is sitting in his car, watching the windows steam up as the rain trickles down the windshield. He has been sitting here for five minutes straight, watching the drops of water. Sitting here reminds him of nights spent on patrol as a uni, but mostly, of staking out with her waiting for a suspect, not even needing to talk but sitting in comfortable silence. Love should lead him to want to drive home, but he finds himself hanging back. Kathy joked the other day that he is almost working more now during his retirement than he was for the NYPD, but it was only half a joke and half a reproach, creating a confusing double bind in front of their son that he hopes was way over his head. She is right. He often finds excuses to stay late, and he doesn't even know why. He doesn't love his job as he does Kathy – and of course he loves Kathy, how could he not, after their history together. They have been together for so long he can't imagine his life without her. He just can't see her all the time, and sometimes, going out for a drink with the guys is not enough. Some nights, he gets the inexplicable urge to reminisce, to retreat to his own, private world that he lost three years ago. He's not sure what exactly he has lost, but it's gone, irretrievable, irreplaceable. He doesn't grieve for it anymore. It's more like a locked room at the back of his mind that he can visit at any time, where he can study objects and situations and relive conversations.

Noah is already asleep as she gets home, so the sitter tells her. She dismisses Guadalupe with a thank you and extra cash for staying longer, and tries to conceal her disappointment from her. Another woman put her son to bed tonight, perhaps reading him a story or singing him a lullaby. It's one more night she has missed, one more night where he closed his eyes without seeing her. She sneaks into his room quietly, careful not to wake him, and bends over the crib, watching him sleep, his hands balled into little fists, his legs kicking slightly, eyes moving behind the closed lids. He is dreaming. She will not disrupt that. Off in his own world, Noah doesn't know about the disappearing witnesses that are the cause of her long days at work, those girls who haunt her, who are so vital to finding his mother's killers. One day, if she's lucky, if he gets to stay with her, she will have to explain all this to him, and she is dreading that day. What will she tell him? "Mom gave you up to a crazy couple who made child porn because she was addicted to drugs, then we got you out of there and arrested the couple, but your mom didn't come to claim you back, we only found her by chance when we arrested her for participating in a rape, then we tried to get her help but she was brutally murdered. But it's okay, because I took you in?" And she always thought her own parentage was messed up… She takes one last look at the sleeping baby, yearning to place a kiss on his head but not daring to do so, then heads over to the kitchen. She desperately wants to pour herself a glass of wine, and another glass, and another glass, until she's comfortably warm and numb, but she will not become a mother like her own. She will not give in.

He simply can't give into it or go through with it, depending on the point of view. He has dialed her number a million times, even driven by her old apartment where he knows she doesn't live anymore, although he doesn't know where she lives now, as it is a well-kept secret. He has spied on her as much as he dares, asking about her at the department. It started after he saw her face on TV, that fateful day when his world shattered and Kathy looked at him in horror, unable to tell him but showing him the news, then handing him the phone as soon as he was physically capable of making a phone call. He has never called her, though. How could he have? What could he have said to her after two years? "I'm sorry you got abducted, tortured for days and who knows what else, so sorry you nearly got killed, that really sucks. Hey, let's be friends again?" And maybe he is a coward as well. He is afraid of what it's done to her, of the different person she will be now. He saw her TV confession, later, saw her looking incredibly strong, and again, he nearly called her. And then she went through it again, and he nearly lost her for good, and he simply can't let himself think about what that bastard did to her. Of course it's utterly selfish. She must hate him. Perhaps she has stopped caring and never expected anything more from him, but somewhere at the back of his mind, he knows she hasn't. If only she had reached out to him. If only he weren't scared shitless.

Sometimes, she lets herself play the "what if" game in her mind after all. What if Brian had answered her question differently? What if she had done this at a younger age? What if Lewis had never happened? Would she still be where she is today? She picks them off one by one like petals off a giant daisy. She never used to question so much. But the answers are all the same, they all lead to where she is right now, right at this moment in time, cradling Noah in her lap and wondering why feeding has to be such a messy affair, with half of the substance dribbling out of his mouth. He doesn't have any physical issues or motor control problems, it's just that the little boy actually seems to like spitting things out, much to her dismay. In moments like that, she sometimes randomly thinks of Elliot, smiling to herself and wondering what he would have to say about all this. She imagines telling him about her day-to-day realizations and how he would come up with some sort of superior reply that showcases his expertise in the department, although in all reality, it was probably Kathy's clothes that were covered in stains. And then he would probably act all judgemental of old motherhood, of single motherhood… She shakes the thought. It's a silly idea, born out of a yearning for familiarity.

These streets, these cars, these people all look the same to him. And yet nothing ever stays the same. Nothing at all. He pulls up into the driveway, and Eli runs over from the lawn where he's been playing, shouting "Dad! Dad! Come look at my tipi!" He smiles, letting his son engage him for the moment. Eli, thoughtful as he is, turns around to the house and shouts "Mom! Dad's home!".

She has decided to hit the park with Noah on her day off, sitting on a blanket spread out on the Great Lawn, taking advantage of the shade of a tree. Noah is on the verge of rolling over, and she is encouraging him, well, encouraging and being slightly mean by putting his toys just out of reach. But he persists and persists, and she reacts with as much enthusiasm as if he were working on winning the Nobel Prize, actually rolling around with him a little. Eventually, they land on the grass and he feels it and immediately tries to taste it. When she takes a gigantic clump of earth from him just in time, he sticks his foot into his mouth instead, entirely content. She tickles the bottom of his other foot and he squeals. Today, at least, there is no darkness. Today, there is only light.