Relief hits so hard I almost laugh. Or cry. Maybe both. “That’s… good.”
“Very good.” She glances at me. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I lost a fight with a bear,” I say honestly.
She laughs, like that’s not the first time she’s heard that. “Yeah, that tracks. Let’s get you through the next part.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What’s the next part?”
She smiles. “Feeding them.”
I stare at her. Then at the babies. Then back at her. “Oh. Great.”
Rose just laughs again, completely unbothered. And something tells me I’m about to be very, very humbled.
“Alright. We’ll start with one and rotate through. You don’t have to be perfect at this—no one is on day one.”
“Cool,” I mutter. “Love being bad at something involving tiny, fragile humans.”
She smiles like I’m charming instead of spiraling. “You’ll be fine.”
I am not convinced.
She helps me adjust the bed first, lifting it just enough so I’m more upright, then shoving about six pillows behind my back like she’s building structural support for a collapsing building. Which, honestly, feels accurate.
Then she places the first baby—my baby—into my arms, guiding my hold before I can panic and do something stupid like drop him or hold him like he’s made of glass.
“Support his head,” she says gently, adjusting my hand. “There you go.”
There I go. Holding a human. A whole person. Mine. Mine to take care of forever, mine to feed, mine to house, mine to?—”
Quietly, she asks, “Mama, where’d you go?”
“Oh my God,” I whisper, because apparently I’ve lost the ability to say anything else.
He’s warm. That’s the first thing I notice when I’m not spiraling.
Warm and real and heavier than he looks, even though he’s still so small it feels like he should weigh nothing. His face scrunches slightly, his mouth moving in little searching motions that make something in my chest squeeze painfully.
“He’s looking for it,” Rose says.
“For what?” I ask, because I know the answer, and I hate it.
She raises a brow. “Food, Mama.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Okay. We can do this. Probably.”
Rose doesn’t laugh at me this time, just smiles. She guides me through it step-by-step, positioning him, adjusting me, explaining things in a calm, steady voice like she’s done this a thousand times. “Bring him closer. Let him find it.”
I do. I try, anyway.
Nothing about this feels natural. My body feels like it belongs to someone else right now—sore and heavy and uncooperative—and trying to coordinate anything on top of that feels borderline impossible. “This is weird.”
“It is weird,” she agrees easily. “You’re both learning.”
That doesn’t make me feel better.
The baby fusses slightly, his little face scrunching more as he tries—and fails—to latch properly.
