The thought makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with Jordan specifically and everything to do with how alone I feel in all of this.
“Mom?” Ash’s voice pulls me back to the present. “You’re staring out the window.”
“Sorry. Just thinking.” I close the laptop and sit down across from him. “How’s the homework going?”
“Good. It’s just reading.” He holds up his book. “Want to hear about it?”
“Always.”
As Ash tells me about his chapter, I try to focus on his words instead of the burden of everything I’m carrying. The job applications, the bills, the constant worry about money. The knowledge that I’m one car repair or medical emergency away from real trouble.
But sitting here with my son, listening to him talk about his book with genuine enthusiasm, I remember why I’m doing all of this. Why I’ll take a retail job and work weekends and figure out whatever I need to figure out.
Ash deserves his trip to DC. He deserves to feel like he belongs with his friends, like money isn’t something he needs to worry about.
Even if it’s somethingIworry about constantly.
“That sounds like a great book,” I tell him when he finishes his summary. “Want to start dinner?”
“Can we have tacos?”
“Absolutely.”
As I pull ingredients from the refrigerator, I catch another glimpse of Jordan through the window. He’s holding the baby now, and even from this distance, I can see he looks tired.
Maybe having it all isn’t as easy as it seems from the outside. Maybe everyone is just trying to figure it out as they go along.
The thought doesn’t solve any of my problems, but somehow it makes me feel a little less alone.
CHAPTER 5
JORDAN
The silence in my house feels different with Henry here. Not peaceful anymore, but heavy with expectation. Like the walls are waiting to see if I’ll figure this out or completely fail.
Henry sits in his carrier on my kitchen island, staring at me with those dark eyes that look so much like Amy’s. The formula and diapers I bought at the store sit on the counter next to what appears to be enough baby supplies to stock a small store.
The trip to CVS was a nightmare. I stood in the baby aisle for twenty minutes staring at dozens of different formula options. Sensitive stomach. Gentle. Organic. How was I supposed to know which one Henry needed? I ended up calling the daycare, and Mrs. Black had to walk me through it over the phone while other shoppers gave me sympathetic looks.
The diaper section was just as confusing. Size three? Size four? Overnight protection or regular? I bought three different kinds just to be safe.
“Okay, buddy,” I say, pulling out my phone to search for baby-feeding schedules. “Let’s see what we’re working with here.”
The search results are overwhelming. Every website says something different. Some say babies Henry’s age should eat every two hours. Others say three to four hours. One site suggests following the baby’s cues, which is completely unhelpful when I don’t know what his cues are.
I settle on a schedule that seems reasonable and start with the bottle, following the formula instructions like they’re a medical procedure. Precise measurements. Proper temperature. When I offer it to Henry, he latches on immediately and drinks like he’s been waiting for this moment all day.
“See? Not so hard.” I’m talking to myself, but Henry doesn’t seem to mind.
The bottle is almost empty when Henry starts fussing. Then crying. Then full-on wailing, his tiny face turning red with the effort.
I check his diaper. Clean. The formula can’t be too hot or too cold because he was drinking it fine a minute ago. Maybe he’s still hungry? I offer the bottle again, but he turns his head away and cries harder.
“Come on, Henry. Work with me here.”
I try holding him upright. Laying him down. Walking around the kitchen while bouncing him gently. Nothing works. The crying gets louder, more desperate, and I feel my own panic rising.
What if something’s wrong? What if he’s sick? What if I’m already failing at the one thing Amy trusted me to do?
