Page 4 of The Other Mother
And then there's the woman who sits directly across from me.
She doesn't look tired like the rest of us. She looks hollow. Pale skin stretched thin over sharp cheekbones, dark circles under eyes that seem too big for her face. Her clothes are clean but wrinkled, like she slept in them. Brown hair pulled back in a ponytail that might have been neat yesterday.
She doesn't smile when she catches me looking. Doesn't look away either. Just stares with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
They all look tired. Stretched thin. But they also look like they belong to their lives in a way I don't belong to mine anymore. All except the pale woman, who looks like she doesn't belong anywhere.
The group leader arrives at exactly ten AM. She's younger than I expected, maybe late twenties, with the kind of enthusiastic energy that makes me want to crawl under my chair. Her name tag says "Jessica" in cheerful purple letters.
"Good morning, mamas!" She settles into her chairwith a clipboard and a travel mug that probably contains something stronger than coffee. "I see we have a new face today. Would you like to introduce yourself?"
All eyes turn to me. The attention feels heavy, suffocating. Back when I worked at the publishing house, I gave presentations to rooms full of people without breaking a sweat. Now eight sleep-deprived women staring at me makes my hands shake.
"I'm Claire. My daughter's name is Eva. She's six weeks old." I paste on a smile that feels stapled in place.
The women murmur polite responses. Welcome to the group. It's so nice to meet you. How are you adjusting?
How am I adjusting? I want to laugh. I want to tell them that yesterday I spent twenty minutes looking for my keys while they were in my hand. That I put Eva's diaper on backwards twice this week. That sometimes when I look at her, I feel like I'm looking at a stranger's child through glass.
Instead, I say, "It's been a process."
Jessica nods knowingly. "The newborn phase is so challenging. What brought you to our group today?"
I think about the real answer. That my husband treats me like I'm made of spun sugar and might break if he speaks too loudly. That I moved to a place where I know no one and have nothing to do except stare at a baby who doesn't feel like mine. That sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night convinced someone has switched my child while I was sleeping.
"I wanted to connect with other mothers," I say instead.
"That's wonderful. Connection is so important during this time." Jessica turns to the blonde woman. "Audrey, how was your week?"
Audrey launches into a story about her three-week-old son's feeding schedule while I let my attention drift. The room has no windows, just fluorescent lights that make everyone look sickly. There's a motivational poster on the wall that says "You're Stronger Than You Think" in swirly script over a photo of a mountain sunset.
I hate inspirational posters. When my mom was dying, the hospital was full of them. Hope. Strength. Faith. Pretty words that meant nothing when your mother is disappearing one chemo treatment at a time.
"Claire?" Jessica's voice snaps me back to the circle. "Would you like to share anything about your experience so far?"
I realize I've missed most of the conversation. The other women are looking at me expectantly, and I scramble to think of something normal to say.
"It's hard," I begin slowly. "Harder than I expected. I thought I'd feel more ... connected to her by now."
The redhead in scrubs nods. "That's totally normal. It took me weeks to bond with my first."
"How many do you have?" I ask.
"Three. This is my third maternity leave in six years." She laughs, but it sounds hollow. "I keep thinking I'll figure it out eventually."
Three kids and she still looks as lost as I feel. Somehow this is both comforting and terrifying.
Jessica leans forward. "Claire, what does 'connected' mean to you?"
I think about Eva's dark eyes, the way they seem to look through me instead of at me. About the yellow onesie with bumblebees that I didn't put on her. About the way she feels too heavy and too light in my arms at the same time.
"I guess I expected to feel like she was mine," I say quietly.
The room goes silent. Even the air conditioning seems to pause.
"Of course she's yours," Audrey says with a nervous laugh. "You carried her for nine months."
But that's the thing. The pregnancy feels like something that happened to someone else. Like a story I heard secondhand. I remember the doctor visits, the ultrasounds, the way my body changed. But it all feels distant now, like watching a movie of my own life.
