Wednesday
Screaming woke me at three AM.
I shot upright, adrenaline spiking through my veins. Hazel.
I stumbled to her cot and scooped her up. Her face was red, blotchy with tears. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
She screamed louder.
Shit.
I checked her nappy. Dry. Tried a bottle. She turned her head away, shrieking. I walked circles around the room, bouncing gently, humming the lullaby Violet always used.
Nothing worked.
She got more upset, her tiny body rigid.
I tried different holds. Rocking. Swaying. The special position Violet had shown me weeks ago.
She screamed and screamed.
By three-thirty, my arms ached. She’d been crying for thirty minutes straight and I had no clue what was wrong.
I could fix telemetry issues in seconds. Could adjust my driving line mid-corner based on feel alone. But I couldn’t figure out why my own daughter was in distress.
Another wail ripped from Hazel’s throat, raw enough to make my chest ache.
Fuck it.
I crossed the suite and knocked on Violet’s door. “Vi? I need help.”
The door opened immediately. Violet’s hair was mussed, her oversized t-shirt wrinkled.
She took Hazel without a word, held her upright against her shoulder, one hand supporting her head while the other rubbed gentle circles on her back.
Seconds later, Hazel let out a small burp, followed by a content sigh.
The crying stopped.
Just like that.
“You forgot to burp her.” Violet kept rubbing Hazel’s back.
I stared at them both. “I tried that.”
“Not long enough.” She demonstrated the motion again, her hand making slow circles. “She needs more time after feeds now. Her stomach’s getting bigger.”
Such a simple thing. So obvious. And I’d missed it completely, letting my daughter suffer for thirty minutes because I didn’t know what I was doing.
Violet handed Hazel back. Our fingers brushed during the transfer, electricity shooting up my arm. But when I looked up, Violet’s expression had already closed off.
“She should sleep now.” Violet stepped back toward her room.
“Vi, wait.”
She paused.
“Thank you.”
