‘Thanks,’ I say quietly, another child for Ella to feed.
She doesn’t respond.Just smiles and keeps eating.
Daisy makes a soft noise against Ella’s chest, her fists curling in that newborn way where she’s either about to cast a spell or start a riot.Ella shifts her little body slightly, adjusting her grip like she’s done it a thousand times.Then she drains the rest of her coffee quick smart.
‘I’m going to jump in the shower before the boys get back and the house turns into a dust cloud,’ she says, already untangling Daisy from her boob and depositing her in my arms like a fragile, slightly grumpy football.
I panic only a little.
‘Pat her on the back until she burps,’ Ella calls as she heads down the hall, tossing the words over her shoulder.‘You’ve got ten minutes before she demands round two.’
I adjust Daisy awkwardly against my shoulder as if I’m preparing to carry a sack of very precious, very breakable flour, and I start patting her back gently.
Nothing.
More pats.Firmer now.
Still nothing.
Then, out of nowhere, an unmistakable, impressive burp erupts over my shoulder, followed by a contented sigh.
‘Well,’ I whisper.‘That was alarming.’
Daisy snuggles into the dip of my shoulder, tiny fingers curling into her blanket.
She whines.I sway.Back and forth.Back and forth.
And it works.She settles.Her cheek is warm against my collarbone.
I keep swaying, just in case.
For a split second, something in me shifts.Okay, I think.Maybe she’s kind of cute.Maybe she’s more than cute.Maybe she’s some kind of Baby Yoda.
Or maybe I need a coffee.
Either way, I don’t put her down.
Ella comes back into the kitchen looking miraculously composed for someone who had a baby sucking the life out of her ten minutes ago.Her cheeks are flushed pink from the shower.Her hair’s damp, shoved into a messy twist at the base of her neck.
‘Here,’ she says, taking Daisy back.‘That wasn’t so bad.’
‘Mostly,’ I say, rubbing the baby ghost from my shoulder.
Daisy releases a grunt and nestles against her mum as if she’s been through something harrowing.Which – honestly – she probably has.
‘I’m going to go rinse off,’ I say, already stepping into the hall.‘And maybe pretend I’m the type of person who thrives in the great outdoors.’
‘Try not to fall in love with the place when you see the retro plumbing.’
I soon realise she’s not wrong.
The bathroom is aggressively old school.A rusted showerhead.Wall tiles the colour of beige regret.A floral shower curtain so stiff it could stand up by itself.Still, the water pressure is surprisingly good – the kind that drills into your back and makes you forget your chiro appointment next week.
I wash quickly, dry off with a towel that smells of sunshine and soap, and fish out a pair of denim shorts and a white linen top from my bag – light, easy, something that makes me feel slightly more human.I brush my hair out, skip the make-up, and glance in the mirror.My green eyes are tired, yet there’s colour in my cheeks again.I look less haunted.Slightly.
Back in the kitchen, I start making coffee.Luke’s ancient machine gurgles like it might explode, then miraculously produces something dark and promising and caffeinated.
Ella reappears, baby-less this time, and watches me with a look that’s half impressed, half suspicious.
