“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know. I keep going over it and over it, and I don’t know.”
My mom sat on the edge of the bed and put her arm around me. Evelyn was sleeping between us. My mom reached out and touched her hair, her little copper curls, very gently.
“Well, would you look at that,” she murmured, and for a second something passed across her face. Something like recognition. But then Evelyn stirred, and my mom pulled her hand back, and the moment was gone.
My dad turned around from the window.
“You’re coming home with us,” he said. “Both of you. As long as you need.”
“Dad, I can’t just—”
“Claire.” He walked over and put his big rough hand on my head, like he used to when I was little. “You’re coming home. That’s the end of it.”
The second day was worse than the first.
The first day, I was in shock. The second day, the shock wore off, and what was underneath it was pain. Raw, ugly pain that sat on my chest like a stone.
I kept looking at my phone. Every time it buzzed, my heart jumped. It was always someone else. My cousin. My friend Rachel from work. The hospital’s billing department. Never Ben.
A lactation consultant came by and helped me with feeding. She was cheerful and brisk and talked a lot about latch angles, and halfway through she said, “Will Dad be helping with nighttime feeds once you’re home?”
I just stared at her.
She looked at my face, then at the empty chair, and her cheeks went pink.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“It’s okay,” I said. It wasn’t.
That afternoon, I got out of bed for the first time and walked very slowly to the bathroom. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My hair was greasy. My face was puffy. There was a hospital bracelet on my wrist with my name on it and a matching one on Evelyn’s ankle. Mother and daughter. A set.
