Page 43 of Accidental Doctor Daddy

She wasn’t wrong. But hearing it didn’t make it easier.

My apartment used to be as sharp and organized as my kitchen line—precise, spotless, efficient. Now it looked like a tornado had torn through a baby store. Toys they couldn’t even use yet littered the floor, cups of cold coffee hid in random corners, and my laundry mocked me from every surface.

I was a mess too. Sore. Stretched. A human dairy farm with a bun so tangled I might need to buzz it off. No spreadsheet or checklist could have prepped me for this bone-deep exhaustion or the crushing guilt.

How could I be burned out already? They were everything to me. My entire world.

But even so, I needed air.

A shower that lasted longer than thirty seconds. A breath where I felt like me again. And that want, that human need? It gnawed at me with every diaper, every sleepless night.

Carrie had stopped by earlier with food and a reminder. “We’ll need you back at Suivante soon,” she said softly.

I missed it—the heat of the kitchen, the chaos, the adrenaline. Being needed for more than just milk and diapers.

But the thought of leaving my babies with anyone else made me sick.

I had prepped for this. Planned for it. A nanny. A daycare, eventually.

Yet now?

The idea of anyone else holding them felt like a betrayal.

It was too soon.

I wasn’t ready.

A sharp knock on the door pulled me out of my downward spiral. I hesitated before making my way over, peeking through the peephole.

Mrs. Waverly. My elderly neighbor from across the hall, carrying a small basket wrapped in a checkered cloth.

No, no, no.

I couldn’t do one of her rambling monologues today. No lessons from the past, thank you very much. I’d be as polite about it as possible, but I had no patience left for adults. It was reserved for my girls.

I pulled open the door, forcing myself to smile. “Hi, Mrs. Waverly.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said immediately, taking in my disheveled state with her milky brown eyes. I had always envied her curls, even though they were ice white. They were perfect, as if she had spent hours in rollers each day. She was slight, maybe five feet tall, and if she owned pants, I didn’t know it. Every day, she wore a dress that looked hand sewn and beautiful. Her voice was normally very soft, but today, it felt like a hug. “You poor thing. You lookdone in.”

I let out a weak laugh. “Then I look as good as I feel.”

“Well,” she said, stepping inside and lifting the basket toward me. “These might help.”

I took it carefully, peeling back the cloth to reveal a neat stack of glorious homemade biscuits.

“They’re for lactation,” she explained. “Made them myself. I used to make these for my daughter when she had my grandson. Lots of good oats, a bit of brewer’s yeast, buttermilk for tang, and honey for sweetness. They’ll help with your energy, too. You’re not eating enough. I can see it on your face.”

Before Mrs. Waverly, no one had ever doted on me. I still wasn’t used to it. I stared down at them, something thick forming in my throat. I blinked hard, trying not to cry. “That is…sokind.”

She patted my arm. “I know how rough it is. The early days are the hardest, but you’ll get through it. You’re strong like me.”

I inhaled shakily, nodding. For a brief moment, I thought about asking her for help.

Shelovedbabies. She had raised her own, had been a grandmother and a great-grandmother for decades. She was kind, patient, thoughtful.

I could ask her. I could—no. No, I couldn’t. She was in her eighties. She didn’t look it, and she was as spry as any fifty-year-old, but I knew better than to trust that.

What if something happened? What if she tripped? What if she dozed off while watching them? The what-ifs slammed into me, stifling out the idea before I could entertain it any further.

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