Page 45 of The Other Mother
"You'd take time off work?"
He laughs, but it sounds forced. "For you? Yeah. I think we need it."
There's something careful in his voice, like he's handling me. Like I'm fragile. Maybe I am.
"Let me think about it," I tell him, and he kisses my forehead before heading to the shower.
After he leaves for work, I take Eva out to the backpatio. The October morning is crisp. The sky is that particular shade of blue that only happens here, so clear it almost hurts to look at.
I settle Eva in her bouncy seat and kneel beside the raised bed Adam built for me. The rosemary I planted last month has brown edges, and the basil looks scorched despite the shade cloth. Only the desert sage seems happy, spreading its silvery leaves like it belongs here.
"We're not desert people, are we, baby girl?" I murmur to Eva, who's watching a hummingbird dart between the barrel cactus Adam insisted would be low-maintenance.
I pull a few weeds, the kind with thorns that grab at your skin and don't let go. My hands are already rough from the dry air, nothing like they used to be when I worked at the publishing house. Back then, I got manicures every two weeks, kept my nails short and neat for typing. I wore nice outfits to work. I was professional and put together.
Now I can't remember the last time I looked in a mirror for longer than it takes to brush my teeth.
The thought reminds me of something my mother used to say when I was little and complained about moving from Ohio to California: "Home isn't about the place, Claire-bear. It's about the people you love and who love you back." She'd been trying to comfort me, but even at eight years old, I'd wondered what happened when you weren't sure about the loving part anymore.
Eva makes a soft cooing sound, and I look up to find her staring at me with those dark eyes. She's beautiful. Perfect. And the longer I look at her, the more that familiar unease creeps up my spine, the feeling that something fundamental is missing between us.
I pick her up and hold her close, breathing in that sweet baby smell. "I love you," I whisper into her hair. "You know that, right?"
She doesn't respond, of course. But there's something in her stillness that feels like a question I can't answer.
By afternoon,I'm parked outside the Desert Springs Wellness Center where the support group meets, but I don't go inside. I can't face the circle of chairs, the careful smiles, the way everyone pretends we're all just tired new mothers dealing with normal postpartum stuff. Instead, I sit in my car under a palo verde tree, watching the shadows lengthen across the parking lot.
I open the wellness center’s site and start clicking anything that looks official. In the footer there’s a tiny link: Group Intake Form (PDF). I tap it open. At the bottom, I see:
Facilitator: J. Alvarado, LMFT #98678
I copy the number and open a new tab to pull up the California Board of Behavioral Sciences license lookup. I paste the number into the search field.
Result: Morales, Janet - LMFT #98678 — Active.
The business address matches Desert Springs Wellness Center. The headshot is older, but it’s her—the same face as the staff photo taped to the check-in desk.
I tap through:license active. No discipline.
A quick searchon both names, “Janet Morales” and “Janet Alvarado,”pulls up an old local piece about a former patient who wouldn’t leave her alone. There’s a restraining order on file.
So she keepsthe license under her maiden name and uses Alvarado at the center. Privacy, not conspiracy.
Heat pricks my cheeks.Janet isn’t my monster.
Not today.
The meeting endsat three thirty. I know because I've been watching the door, waiting. Women trickle out in ones and twos, clutching their purses and water bottles, most of them looking like they'd rather be anywhereelse. Vanessa appears, the chatty one who always asks how everyone is sleeping. She glances around the parking lot like she's looking for someone, then gets into her white SUV and drives away.
Mara is the last to leave.
She emerges slowly, clutching a faded denim jacket around her thin frame. Even from a distance, I can see how much weight she's lost since that first meeting. Her cheekbones are sharp now, her eyes hollow. She looks like someone who's been carved away from the inside.
She sees me immediately. Doesn't seem surprised.
I get out of my car and walk toward her, my heart hammering against my ribs. She doesn't run. Doesn't yell. Just stands there waiting, like she's been expecting this moment.
"What do you want?" Her voice is flat, empty of emotion.
