Page 21 of The Other Mother
You're not crazy. You're right.
I've read it so many times the paper is starting to wear thin along the creases.
It's just past nine PM when Adam finds me in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher with the dinner plates we barely touched. Eva finally went down after an hour of fussing, and the house feels unusually quiet without her intermittent cries echoing from the baby monitor.
"Hey," he says softly, sliding up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. His chin rests on my shoulder, and I can smell his aftershave mixed withthe faint scent of the desert air that clings to his clothes. "Leave those. They can wait.”
I lean back against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him for the first time in days. Since he got back from Phoenix, we've been like ships passing in the night, taking turns with Eva's care but barely connecting as a couple.
"How are you holding up?" he asks, his voice gentle against my ear. "Really. I know I've been distracted with work stuff, but I can see you're struggling.”
The concern in his voice almost breaks me. This is the Adam I fell in love with, the one who notices when I'm having a hard day before I even realize it myself. Not the distracted businessman who's been fielding client calls during Eva's bedtime routine.
"I'm okay," I start to say, but he turns me around in his arms, his hands resting on my hips.
"Claire." His dark eyes search my face. "You barely ate dinner. You've been jumpy all week. Talk to me.”
I want to tell him everything. About the hospital bracelets, the blankets and the gray car seat. About Mara appearing and disappearing like a ghost. About the note from a stranger telling me I'm not crazy.
But looking into his worried face, I realize how insane it would all sound. How could I explain that I think something happened to our baby without sounding like I'm having some kind of postpartum breakdown?
"I've just been tired," I say instead. "You know how it is with a newborn.”
He studies my expression for a moment, then nods slowly. "I know I haven't been as helpful as I should be. These client meetings, the travel. I hate leaving you alone with everything.”
"You're building your business. I understand.”
"But you're my priority. You and Eva." His thumb traces along my jawline. "I love you, Claire. I love our little family. I want to make sure you're okay.”
The tenderness in his voice undoes something tight in my chest. When was the last time we just talked like this? When was the last time he looked at me like I was more than just Eva's caregiver or another person making demands on his schedule?
"I love you too," I whisper.
He leans down and kisses me, soft and gentle at first, then deeper when I respond. His hands slide up to cup my face, and for a moment I forget about everything else. The paranoia, the doubts, the growing list of things that don't make sense. There's just Adam and the familiar comfort of being wanted, being cherished.
We kiss like we used to before Eva was born, when our biggest worry was whether to order Thai food or pizza for dinner. His hands tangle in my hair, and I press closer to him, desperate for this connection, this reminder that we're still us underneath all the chaos of new parenthood.
"God, I've missed this," he murmurs against my lips. "I've missed you.”
"Me too," I breathe.
He kisses me again, and I can taste the wine he had with dinner, can feel the slight roughness of his stubble against my skin. His hands move to my waist, pulling me closer, and I remember what it felt like to be desired instead of just needed.
"Eva's asleep," he says, his voice low and hopeful.
I nod suddenly wanting nothing more than to lose myself in him, to forget about everything except the way he makes me feel when he looks at me like this. Like I'm beautiful instead of exhausted. Like I'm his wife instead of just the woman who takes care of his daughter.
We move toward the bedroom together, his arm around my shoulders, and for the first time in weeks I feel like maybe everything might be okay. Maybe I'm just overwhelmed and sleep-deprived. Maybe Adam is right and I need to stop overthinking everything.
Maybe we can get back to being the couple we were before doubt crept in and made me question everything I thought I knew.
The baby monitorhums beside our bed, its green light pulsing steadily in the darkness. Adam sleeps deeply next to me afterward, one arm thrown across his pillow, his face peaceful in the way that only comes with truecontentment. The digital clock reads 2:17 AM when I finally drift off, my body heavy with the exhaustion that's become my constant companion and the lingering warmth of being close to my husband again.
Then I hear it. A baby's scream, sharp and shrill, cutting through the quiet house like a knife.
But it's not coming from the monitor.
I find myself standing in a dimly lit hospital hallway, the familiar antiseptic smell filling my nostrils. The floors are polished linoleum that reflects the harsh fluorescent lights overhead, creating an endless tunnel of white and gray. I'm wearing a hospital gown, the thin cotton rough against my skin, and my feet are bare on the cold tile.
