Christina stood in the doorway, the morning air cool against her bare arms, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass from Will’s mowing yesterday. Violet had quieted against her chest, her breathing evening out.
Sleep, she told herself. He’s right. Sleep.
But the cottage was too quiet, and every time she closed her eyes, her brain supplied a new worry. Was Violet breathing too fast? Too slow? Why did her left eye look slightly crusty? Should she call the pediatrician?
She was still awake, lying rigid beside Violet’s bassinet, when Ryan returned an hour later with a sweaty, happy dog and a bag of blueberry muffins from Sam.
“She said to tell you the blueberries are fresh. And she’s coming by after lunch to give you a break.”
Days blurred. Christina lost track of which was which, marking time only by Violet’s feeding schedule and the steady parade of visitors who appeared at her door bearing food, advice, and extra hands.
Sam arrived that afternoon with a casserole dish warm against her chest—Dora’s famous chicken pot pie inside. She’d braided her dark hair into two neat plaits, and her face lit up when she saw Violet sleeping in the Moses basket Christina had moved to the living room.
“Can I hold her?” Sam whispered, as if the baby might shatter at full volume.
“Please.” Christina gestured toward the basket. “She’ll probably wake up the second you pick her up. She has a sixth sense for it.”
But Violet didn’t wake. She nestled into Sam’s arms with a tiny sigh, her rosebud mouth working in her sleep.
“She’s so perfect,” Sam breathed. She started humming—something soft and melodic that Christina didn’t recognize—and began swaying gently.
Christina grabbed the opportunity. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Is that okay?”
“Take your time.” Sam didn’t look up, her whole attention fixed on Violet’s face.
The hot water loosened the knots in Christina’s shoulders. She stood under the spray until it started to cool, washing away days of accumulated stress and the persistent milk smell that clung to everything. She shampooed her hair twice, a luxury she hadn’t managed since the hospital.
When she emerged, dressed in a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, Sam was still humming to Violet. The cottage smelled like the chicken pot pie warming in the oven, and for a moment, standing in the hallway with damp hair, Christina’s throat went tight.
Not sad. Grateful. These people, who owed her nothing, who kept showing up every day, helping out.
“My grandmother said she sang this to me when I was little,” Sam said, noticing Christina watching. “I don’t remember but she said she’d rock me in an old rocking chair and sing about mockingbirds and diamond rings.” Her smile was soft with memory. “I had her sing it to me again, thought maybe Violet would like it too.”
Emily came the next morning, Grace on her hip and a diaper bag slung over her shoulder that seemed to contain half of the baby supplies in Blueberry Hill.
“Survival kit,” she announced, dumping the bag on the couch. “Gas drops—if you don’t already, you’ll need them soon. Nipple cream—the expensive kind because the cheap stuff doesn’t work. Extra swaddle blankets because they get disgusting fast. And these.” She held up a pair of noise-canceling earbuds. “For when you need to take a break but can’t actually leave the room.”
Christina stared at the mountain of supplies. “I can’t accept all this.”
“You can and you will.” Emily set Grace down on the play mat she’d apparently also packed, then turned to examine Violet in her bassinet. “Oh, she’s so beautiful. Look at those fingers. Grace, can you see your cousin? You two are going to grow up together, and be like sisters, you know that?”
Grace babbled something and reached for her own toes.
“Does it get easier?” Christina asked. She hadn’t meant to—the question just slipped out, exhaustion loosening her filter.
Emily’s expression softened. “Yes, and no. The sleep deprivation eases up around month three or four. But then they start teething. And then they’re mobile and trying to eat everything that isn’t food.” She laughed at Christina’s horrified face. “I’m not helping, am I?”
“Not really.”
“Here’s what actually helps.” Emily sat on the couch, pulling Christina down beside her. “Let people take care of you. I know you want to prove you can do this alone, but you don’t have to.”
Christina looked at her lap, at her hands still rough and dry from all the sanitizing. “What if I don’t deserve it?”
“Deserve what?”
“Any of this. The help. The casseroles. Everyone dropping everything to make sure I’m okay.” She swallowed hard. “I made a choice. A stupid choice. And now everyone else is cleaning up after me.”
Emily was quiet for a moment. “Was it stupid? Or was it human?”
