Twenty minutes later, Ash is settled on the couch with a plate of pancakes and cartoons playing on the TV. I pour myself a second cup of coffee and enjoy the peaceful morning sounds of animated characters and my son’s occasional giggle. I still haven’t heard back from any place I’ve applied to, including the boutique, but I’m not about to give up. I know I’ll get a job eventually.
I have to.
“I’m going to check the mail,” I call to Ash, wanting to get a start on the day. “Be right back.”
“Okay,” he says without taking his eyes off the screen.
I slip on my sneakers and head outside. The morning air is crisp but not cold, perfect for the jeans and sweater I threw on. Our mailbox sits at the end of the driveway, and I’m rifling through the usual collection of bills and advertisements when I hear crying.
Not just any crying. Baby crying.
I look up to see my neighbor Jordan standing next to his car, holding a baby carrier at an awkward angle while a tiny voice wails from inside it. The baby’s cries are getting louder by the second, and Jordan looks like he’s about to have a panic attack.
He sets the carrier down on his driveway and runs both hands through his hair. Even from here, I can see the exhaustion written across his face. This is not a man who’s had much sleep.
I watch as he tries to lift the carrier again, this time with different hand positions. The crying doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets more desperate.
This is none of my business. I don’t even know the man’s last name. But that baby sounds distressed, and Jordan clearly has no idea what he’s doing.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m crossing the space between our driveways.
“Excuse me,” I call. “Is everything okay?”
Jordan looks up, and I can see the relief in his eyes at having another adult to talk to. “I’m trying to get him in the car, but he won’t stop crying. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
Up close, the baby’s wails are even more heartbreaking. He’s tiny, maybe six months old, with dark hair and tear-stained cheeks. His little fists are clenched, and his face is red from crying.
“Can I?” I gesture toward the carrier.
Jordan nods quickly. “Please.”
I unbuckle the baby and lift him out, automatically adjusting his position against my shoulder. The crying doesn’t stop immediately, but I can feel his tiny body start to relax as I rub his back in small circles.
“Shh, sweetheart,” I murmur, swaying slightly. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
Within a minute, the crying subsides to small hiccups. Within two minutes, he’s quiet, his head resting against my shoulder.
Jordan stares at me like I just performed magic. “How did you do that?”
“Sometimes they just need to be held upright. Being in the carrier can be uncomfortable.” I continue rubbing the baby’s back. “What’s his name?”
“Henry.” Jordan’s voice is thick with exhaustion. “He’s my nephew. My sister’s baby.”
His sister’s baby? Not his? Not his and his wife’s?
It makes more sense, since I’ve never seen him with a woman. It also makes me a bit relieved, although it’s not like I ever had a shot with him anyway. This is the first time we’ve spoken.
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. There’s something guarded in his expression that tells me not to push.
“He’s beautiful,” I say instead. “How old?”
“Six months.” Jordan reaches out tentatively, like he wants to touch Henry but isn’t sure he should. “I’m watching him for a while.”
The way he says it, like there’s more to the story but he’s not sharing it, makes me curious. But I’ve been a single mom long enough to know that everyone has their private struggles.
“I don’t suppose you could show me what you did? The thing with the back rubbing?”
“Of course.” I shift Henry so Jordan can see my hand placement. “Small circles, gentle pressure. Sometimes they have gas bubbles that need to work their way out. The motion helps.”
