And I know that, I do. I can tell she's got all the best features of both her mom and dad, even at three weeks old. I know she's Abby's. I know she's Aaron's.
But goddamn if she doesn't feel a little bit like mine, too.
***
I'm sitting cross-legged on the couch, halfway through folding the second load of laundry in the hamper next to me, with Erin sleeping soundly in her portable bassinet in front of me, when I hear shuffling footsteps.
"What's that buzzing noise?" Abby grumbles, blearily rubbing her eyes. I point at the white noise machine, which I brought into the living room with us.
"Oh, right," she yawns, plopping down directly on top of a neatly folded pile of baby clothes. She looks down, confused by the lump that should be the couch cushion. She looks around,eyes widening on the mountains of folded laundry scattered throughout the living room. "Jack, I told you I would do this when I got up."
"You also said you were only going to close your eyes for a few minutes," I counter, looking down at my watch. "About three hours ago."
"Oh my God," she groans. "Why did you let me sleep that long? How is she?"
"Because you were tired," I say. "She's perfectly fine, snug as a bug."
She peeks over the edge of the bassinet, a content, almost blissful smile on her face as she watches her daughter.
"She's so perfect," she gushes, reaching down to stroke her cheek with a gentle finger. "You're so good with her," she adds, gaze still fixed on Erin. "And so good to us both."
"Easiest thing in the world," I say quietly. "Being good to you."
"How did we get so lucky?" she murmurs, seemingly to Erin, and to herself.
After a few minutes, she gently wakes her, taking her into the nursery to feed her. I busy myself with the remainder of the laundry, putting away everything that doesn't go in the nursery and ignoring the ache in my chest that always comes with thinking too hard about my place in this. It's afternoons like these, when I get extended periods of time just Erin and me, when it's a little too easy to forget that we're not a family. To forget that this isn't how it's supposed to be.
I'm an intruder here, in this home and in their lives. I might be invited, and appreciated, welcomed, even, but that doesn't stop the voice in my head that constantly reminds me that I do not belong here. That the only reason I'm here is because of a cruel tragedy. Guilt roils in my stomach at the thought. I shouldn't be so comfortable, sohappyin a place that should belong to my best friend. It shouldn't feel like the highlight of my life.
"Thank you," Abby's voice behind me snaps me out of the spiral of confusion threatening to pull me under. "You really didn't have to do that."
"I know," I say, turning around and leaning against the kitchen counter. "But I'm happy to do it. I'm happy to help however I can."
Her brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, and she twists the bottom of her shirt anxiously.
"You okay, pretty girl?"
"Yeah," she says slowly. "I really hate to ask, and please tell me if this is too much—"
"You can ask me anything," I say emphatically. "And nothing is too much, not for you."
"I'm just so tired," she says, lip trembling and eyes filling with tears.
"Hey," I say, pushing off the counter and hurrying over to her. "What's wrong? What do you need?"
"I need to take a shower," she says.
"Okay, that's fine, go take a shower. I've got Erin."
"That's the problem," she says, voice cracking. "I'm too tired. I can't do it. But I feel so gross, and my hair is disgusting, and I'm going to freak out if I can't get the layers of spit up off of my skin."
"What can I do?" I ask. "You name it, I'll do it."
"I would ask Ellie, but she's so busy at work after taking those first two weeks off to take care of me, and—"
"Abby. Ask me. I'm right here."
"Will you wash my hair?" she asks timidly. "I'll wear a bathing suit and whatever, but I just want to lay in the tub and feel clean again, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."
