And not theI love youpart. That’s easy. That’s safe. It’s the other stuff, the talk about pads and ointments and stitches, that makes me icky. I know it’s not very modern of me, or even logical. I grew up in a house full of women; conversations about periods and cramps and bodily functions were as normal as talking about the weather. I canlistento other people talk about it just fine. I can even chime in sometimes.
But when it’s aboutme, when the body in question ismybody, I seize up. I get weird and tongue-tied, and I hate it. I’ve tried to be more open, but the truth is, I’m just not someone who can speak so candidly about…women stuff.
God, I sound ridiculous.
To escape the sudden wave of vulnerability, I blurt, “Does your insurance cover day care?”
Matthew blinks at me, clearly thrown. “What?”
“Day care,” I repeat, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I was texting the girls earlier and Becks said some insurances help cover part of the cost. I was just wondering if yours does.”
He frowns slightly. “I’ll have to check. My workload’s kind of heavy today.”
“Even better,” I say quickly. “Just send me your policy thingy and I’ll read it.”
His lips twitch, somewhere between a smile and a smirk. He’s clearly trying not to laugh.
I roll my eyes. I’dliketo act indignant here, but I probably won’t understand a word of it. I huff. “Fine. I’ll just ask ChatGPT to read it for me.”
That gets a proper grin out of him. “Whatever you say.” He leans in, kisses my cheek, and grabs his travel mug from the counter.
I stand there for a second, watching him pull on his coat and sling his bag over his shoulder. Just before he reaches the door, I call out, “Should I start packing you lunch, dear?”
He pauses mid-step, then lets out a laugh before disappearing out the door.
When the door clicks shut, the silence swells. I glance around the apartment, then at the sofa, my sofa, my nest, where I spent most of my pregnancy doing exactly what everyone told me to:not worrying. Matthew’s orders. Mine too. I let myself sink into it, this once-in-a-lifetime permission slip to slow down. I pigged out on snacks. I lived in pyjamas. I binge-watched shows like it was my job, not the limited series everyone raves about these days, but the classics.How to Get Away with Murder. Scandal. One Tree Hill. Desperate Housewives. Modern Family. Friends.You name it, I watched it.
I even somehow ended up watching a documentary about a “happy ending” massage parlour, don’t ask me how, because I genuinely don’t know. One minute I was watching reruns, the next I was knee-deep in a scandal about illegal message operations. It happened. Let’s move on.
I bite my lip as I stand there, the kitchen still smelling faintly of Matthew’s cologne. I loved being a flight attendant, the movement, the airports, the boarding calls that felt like music. But as much as I miss that life, I’m not ready to fly away from my baby. Not yet. Maybe when Penny’s older. Maybe when I’ve figured out how to be bothmeandmomat the same time. For now, I want something local. Something small. Something that lets me contribute to this family in a way that’s more than just emotional support and diaper duty.
The problem is, I have no ideawhatthat is.
All the women in my group are first-time moms too, except Sheera, but since hers is a later-in-life baby, even she’s starting from scratch when it comes to childcare. Zara has her ex’s mom lined up to watch her son when she goes back to work. Sheera’s in limbo. Becks is still figuring things out. And Ursula… well, she’s made peace with her decision, but that’s a whole different situation. I can’t exactly ask any of them for advice. We’re all just guessing here.
Feeling suddenly faint, maybe from standing too long, maybe from the thought spiral, I grab my bowl of strawberries and shuffle toward the bedroom. Matthew’s already set it up like a little recovery nest. There’s a mini cooler stocked with water bottles and juice, a stack of clean burp cloths, and even a tray table tucked against the wall. He wanted to buy me one of those little bedside cooking gadgets people use to make grilled cheese in bed, but I told him to calm down, I’m one week postpartum, not bedridden. I can manage the stove.
Now, I know what you’re probably thinking:He left his one-week postpartum wife alone?But the truth is, he doesn’t really have a choice. His job might be on the line, and as much as Iwant to tell him to stay, I can’t. We need his income. We need the insurance. We need the stability.
Ididask him how much we paid out of pocket for the hospital stay, but he brushed it off with a “don’t worry about it.” I was too exhausted at the time to press, but now… now I want answers. I want to know why he’s rushing back to work instead of taking the paternity leave he’s legally entitled to. I want to know why he’s more stressed than usual, why he’s distracted even when he’s home.
I have this gnawing feeling he’s hiding something. But when, exactly, am I supposed to ask?
He leaves for work early. Comes home late. Then spends the entire evening taking care of Penny and the housealone. He tries so hard, God, he tries, but Penny’s been fussy lately. She refuses to drink from bottles of pumped milk, which means he can’t help with the nighttime feeds. I’m not pushing it, she’s only been alive for a week, butcome on, kid. Give your dad a break.
Matthew’s been cooking all the meals, prepping my breakfast and lunch, and doingallthe housework, laundry, dishes, vacuuming, everything. It’s kind of hard to interrogate someone about financial secrets when they collapse face-first into the pillow the second they sit down.
So, I sit there, back against the headboard, strawberries forgotten in the bowl, and stare at the ceiling. The apartment is quiet. Penny is napping. My body still aches.
Something’s going on with Matthew. And I don’t know what it is.
Matthew
Every time Donald Duck cuts me off, I bite my tongue and remind myself, I have a wife and a child at home. I remembermy childhood, how hard my mom worked for me, and I’ll be damned if Brooke has to do the same.
“I can take the meeting with Boeing next week,” Duck says.
“Ms. Sterling and I have a working relationship,” I answer evenly. “I’m afraid changing representation now will-”
