Page 30 of The Other Mother
I consider leaving. Making some excuse about Eva being fussy, about forgetting something in the car. But the group leader, Janet, has already spotted me and is waving me in with that aggressively cheerful smile therapists perfect in graduate school.
"Claire! So glad you could make it. We were just getting started."
I have no choice but to sit in the empty chair. Mara doesn't look at me, but I can feel her presence. Eva fusses in her carrier, and I rock it gently, hoping she'll stay quiet.
The room is painted that particular shade of beige that's supposed to be calming but just makes everything look dead. I stare at one of the motivational posters that promises that I’m stronger than I think. It’s boring atbest, and annoying at worst. I fight the urge to pull it down.
Janet starts with her usual check-in routine. How is everyone feeling today? What are we grateful for? The other women respond with the kind of careful answers you give when you're trying to convince yourself as much as everyone else that you're okay.
One woman talks about her two-month-old finally sleeping for three-hour stretches. Another shares that she made it through a whole Target trip without crying in the diaper aisle. Someone else mentions that her mother-in-law visited and actually helped instead of criticizing everything she did.
Normal problems. Normal struggles. The kind of postpartum challenges that have solutions. More sleep, better support, time for healing.
Then it's Mara's turn.
She raises her head for the first time since I walked in, and her eyes are completely dry. Not the red-rimmed look of someone who's been crying, but the glassy, empty stare of someone who's moved beyond tears into something much darker.
"I'm tired," she says, and her voice is too calm. Too controlled. "Honestly? I can't keep doing this."
The room goes quiet. Even Eva stops fussing.
"People keep telling me to move on. That I imagined it. That she died." She pauses, and when she continues, there's a tremor underneath the control. "But I didn'timagine what I saw. Or what I felt when they took her out of my arms."
My chest tightens. Around the circle, I can see the other women shifting uncomfortably. This isn't the kind of sharing Janet encourages. It’s too raw, specific, potentially triggering for the rest of us.
Mara turns and looks directly at me. Her eyes are the color of muddy water, and they seem to see straight through my skin to whatever's rotting underneath.
"When someone steals your child ... " she says, never breaking eye contact, "and everyone thinks you're the crazy one ... "
The air in the room changes. It feels thinner, harder to breathe. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears, can feel sweat beading on my upper lip despite the air conditioning.
One woman makes a small gasping sound while another one puts her hand to her throat. They all look at Mara like they’re watching a car accident happen in slow motion.
Janet clears her throat, her professional composure starting to crack. "Mara, maybe let's pause and?—"
"No." Mara stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the linoleum floor. "I'm done pretending."
She walks out without another word. The door closes with a soft click that somehow sounds final.
For a moment, nobody moves. Janet tries to salvage the session, steering the conversation back to safe topics like sleep schedules and feeding routines.
But something flickers across her face as she gathers her clipboard. It’s a quick flash of unease, or maybe something closer to annoyance.
“Let’s not get distracted by one person’s delusions,” she says with a too-bright smile.
The worddelusionscatches in my throat. That’s not the language therapists typically use. That’s the kind of word used to dismiss someone.
Everyone keeps glancing at me when they think I'm not looking, and I can practically hear their thoughts: What did she mean? Why was she looking at Claire like that?
I make it through another ten minutes before I can't stand it anymore. I mumble something about Eva needing a diaper change and escape into the hallway. My legs feel unsteady, like I'm walking on a boat deck in rough seas.
Janet appears beside me. She touches my elbow. “Don’t engage her, Claire. She fixates on new moms.”
Her smile is too smooth, like she’s practiced it in a mirror. I realize something, Janet never shares anything about herself. Not one detail.
The parking lot is an oven.The asphalt shimmers with heat waves, and the few palm trees scattered around the wellness center look like they're dying despite the sprinkler system that runs constantly. Everything here isfighting to survive against the desert's determination to kill it.
I'm fumbling with Eva's car seat, my hands shaking so badly I can barely work the straps, when I hear footsteps behind me.
