I lay in my old twin bed that night with Evelyn in a borrowed bassinet beside me. My mom had found it in a neighbor’s garage that afternoon and scrubbed it in the bathtub. The stars glowed faintly green above me, the same stars I used to wish on when I was nine.
I didn’t wish on them now. I didn’t think I’d ever wish on anything again.
I cried all night. Not loud. I’d learned that in the hospital. I cried into my pillow so it wouldn’t wake her.
At three in the morning, Evelyn woke up hungry. I picked her up and sat in the old rocking chair by the window and fed her in the dark. The house was so quiet. I could hear the refrigerator humming downstairs and a dog barking somewhere far away.
The door creaked open. My mom came in, in her bathrobe, and sat on the edge of the bed without turning on the light.
“Can’t sleep either?” I whispered.
“Not a wink.”
We sat there in the dark for a while. Evelyn made tiny swallowing sounds.
“Mom,” I said. “What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to rest. And heal. And take care of this little girl. And let us take care of you.”
“I mean after that. How am I supposed to do this alone? I don’t even know how to change a diaper without her screaming.”
“Nobody knows how to change a diaper without the baby screaming,” my mom said. “The baby screams no matter what. That’s not you failing. That’s just babies.”
I laughed, a little, wet and broken.
Then I said the thing I’d been thinking all night.
“I won’t beg him.”
My mom was quiet.
“I won’t, Mom. I spent six years feeling like I wasn’t enough. Like my body was broken. Like I was letting him down every single month.” My voice shook. “And then she came. She came, and she’s perfect, and she’s a gift. She’s a gift from God, Mom. If he can’t see that, if he can look at her and say she’s a disappointment, then I don’t want him. I’m not going to beg a man to love his own daughter.”
