The baby monitor blinks on the nightstand, her wails filling the room.
“Babe?” I call weakly. No answer. Why would Matthew leave the monitor here? Where the hell is he?
When I feel like I can stand without collapsing, I push myself up, using the walls for balance as I make my way out of the bedroom. If he wanted me to handle her, he could’ve put her crib in our bedroom. Instead, she’s so far away.
In the nursery, I bend to lift Penny and nearly topple forward, muscles screaming as I pull myself back upright. She keeps wailing, my presence doing nothing for her. My body feels like it’s failing me, again.
One hand on the crib for balance, I drag the chair closer with the other. Somehow, clumsily, I scoop Penny up and collapse into the chair, clutching her against me. I don’t drop her. Barely.
“Yeah, I need to change the pad,” I mutter under my breath, grimacing at the wet heat between my legs. I feel disgusting. Broken.
I undress enough to help Penny latch on, and finally, finally, the wailing softens into greedy sucking. Relief hums through me, sharp and fragile.
I sit there as my daughter drinks her fill, the rhythmic tugging at my breast anchoring me in the moment. I keep waiting for Matthew to appear out of nowhere, like maybe he’s just in the bathroom, or grabbing water from the kitchen.
Please.
He’s not here. He left.
I know him well enough to believe he’ll come back, but a part of me can’t help the thought:Is this it?Did he finally have enough? Did the nice guy finally get tired of carrying me?
“You know,” I murmur, brushing a fingertip over Penny’s cheek, “I met your dad in college. We were just friends and then I ran into him in Paris and well…”
I trail off, thinking about that story, then shake my head. “Maybe we’ll just tell you when you’re older. Or never,” I finish, trying to sound animated, like I’m telling a fairytale instead of confessing to an infant.
Penny doesn’t care. Doesn’t even blink, just keeps nursing, utterly unimpressed with my big romantic lead-in.
“I’m just a fridge to you, aren’t I?” I sigh.
As if in answer, her eyes flutter closed.
“Hmph,” I mutter. She doesn’t seem to do anything other than sleep, eat, or poo. Maybe this won’t be as hard as people say. Then again, they say labour is the easy part. Idiots.
When her mouth finally goes slack and her little body goes heavy, I stand carefully, every muscle on high alert, and lower her back onto the bed. She doesn’t stir.
I linger for a second, debating whether to head to the kitchen and look for Matthew. But the idea of facing disappointment if he’s not there makes my stomach twist.
Instead, I turn toward the bedroom. A shower. God, I need a shower.
Steam fogs the mirror as I turn the shower on, peeling off my clothes one piece at a time. The smell hits me first, sour milk, sweat, something metallic that seems to be seeping out of my skin.
I step under the spray, and let the hot water pound my shoulders. For a second, I just stand there, waiting for it to wash everything away. It doesn’t.
I glance down at my body. The stitches pull, tugging in places that should’ve healed but still feel raw. My stomach is soft, caved in, like a balloon someone let all the air out of. I used to love my body, tight skirts, crop tops, legs that got appreciative glances, from women. Now? Now I can’t look at myself without flinching.
The tears come without warning, hot as the water. I press my palms against the tile, and bow my head. My body feels like a stranger’s, like I’ll never get it back. Never getmeback.
The sound of Penny’s earlier wail echoes in my head. And Matthew not being there when I woke up, God, things between us feel so shaky, so in the air. I love him, I do, but I’m scared he only loves the Brooke he conjured in his head. And the real me? I’m just… a disappointment.
The sobs rack through me, muffled by the spray.What if he decides he’s done with me?
It’s not like I have much family to fall back on. My sister’s the only one, and she’s drowning in her own mess, with Zeke in the wind, her juggling the kids and work and everything else. I can’t ask her to carry me too.
I love Penny. God, I love her. But there’s a reason I wanted to be more solid before I had kids, more… something. Stronger. Stable. Instead, I’m crying in the shower like the worst cliché ever.
I don’t regret her. I don’t regret Matthew. But why is this so hard?
It seems to come so easy to other women, with their picture-perfect Instagrams, their neat little captions about #blessed and #momlife, they dance during labour, make reels after giving birth and I can’t even pick up my own baby without falling.
