I shut my eyes. God, I wanted to tell him. I wanted to scream it all into the void. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
“I’m just tired,” I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
“Postpartum depression,” he said gently, nodding as if he understood. “We can get help for that.”
Help? There was no help for what haunted me.
His eyes drifted to my swollen breasts.
“Are you going to nurse her?” he asked, trembling with fragile hope.
I shot him a look. “No. You said you’d help. You wanted this. You can feed her formula.”
The baby stirred in his arms, her tiny hands curling into fists, her body kicking and flailing as her cries intensified.
“But she’s hungry now,” Jack pleaded, torn between obeying me and wanting to soothe his daughter. “You must feed her—at least until we get home.”
I clenched my jaw and reached for the child I hadn’t evennamed. She latched onto my aching breast, relieving the pressure, but I felt nothing.
No warmth. No bond. No love.
Just emptiness.
Back home, I sat in the kitchen, listlessly picking at a prepackaged salad we’d grabbed from the grocery store. My appetite had vanished.
“I need to see Lee,” I said flatly.
Jack glanced over, bouncing the baby on his shoulder. “You want to see Lee? Why?”
“We have to tell him about the baby. He deserves to know.”
His face twisted with disappointment, and his look seared into me like hot coals. His voice was clipped and accusing.
“Whatever. Someone’s got to take care of our child, and I guess that’s me now.”
He jostled her a bit too firmly, but she didn’t cry. She cooed, oddly at ease in his rough embrace.
At least I’d given my children fathers who wanted to care for them.
Jack looked down at her, his expression softening with wonder. “She needs a name. Something beautiful. Something worthy.”
The baby gurgled, waving her tiny arms as if she understood.
“Olivia,” he said suddenly. “Yes—Olivia! FromTwelfth Night. Strong. Independent. Complicated. That’s it!”
He looked up at me, eyes bright. “What do you think, Alina? Shall we call her Olivia?”
My heart faltered. That name—hername.
“It’s fine,” I said hollowly. “I don’t care what you call her.”
Jack’s smile widened. “Your mommy doesn’t care,” he said in a sing-song voice.
Olivia squealed.
“She doesn’t care,” he continued, tickling her belly. “But I think she does. I think she caressomuch.”
He twirled her in his arms and waltzed out of the kitchen like we were living a joyful dream.
