Page 9 of The Other Mother
It still feels like someone else's.
I take a picture of the tag with my phone, making sure the letters are clearly visible. Then I fold the blanket carefully and carry it to Eva's nursery. The closet is already overflowing with clothes she's either outgrown or never worn, gifts from people who don't understand that babies grow at their own unpredictable pace.
I shove the blanket into the back corner, behind the fancy dresses she'll never wear and the winter clothesthat are useless in the desert. Hidden but not thrown away. Just in case.
Just in case what, I'm not sure. But something about that blanket feels important. Like evidence in a case I don't understand yet but might need to prove someday.
I close the closet door and look back at Eva, still sleeping peacefully in her crib. The late afternoon sun has shifted, casting long shadows across the nursery walls. Everything looks normal. Ordinary. Exactly like a baby's room should look.
But normal is starting to feel like a mask I can't see behind.
If this blanket wasn't hers, I don't want to forget that again.
4
STATIC
The morning sun is already merciless by eight AM, turning our back patio into a furnace that makes me dizzy just looking at it through the sliding glass door. But I need to be outside. Need to do something with my hands that isn't changing diapers or doing laundry or staring at Eva while she sleeps.
I settleher bouncy seat in the shade of the patio umbrella and drag the hose over to the raised planter boxes Adam built before Eva was born. Back when we thought having a baby would be like the Instagram posts I used to scroll through during my lunch breaks in Newport Beach. Peaceful moments in sun-drenched gardens, beautiful children playing quietly while their mothers tended to thriving vegetables and herbs.
The reality isthat my tomato plants are dying.
I plantedthem right before Eva was born. Cherry tomatoes that were supposed to be foolproof, according to the woman at the garden center. Perfect for beginners, she said. Practically grow themselves in this climate.
Now they'rebrown and withered, the leaves curling inward like they're trying to protect themselves from something. I water them anyway, watching the dry soil drink up the moisture desperately. Too little, too late. Story of my life lately.
"We used to have a garden,"I tell Eva, even though she's staring at the umbrella with the intense focus of a newborn. "Back in Irvine. Just a little balcony with herbs and succulents. Everything grew so easily there.”
The memory feelslike it belongs to someone else. That version of myself who could keep plants alive, who had opinions about which basil variety to grow, who spent Saturday mornings at the farmers market choosing heirloom tomatoes because I had the luxury of caring about such things.
Eva starts fussing, the small sounds that mean she'sgetting hungry. My breasts respond before my brain does, the familiar tingle and ache that signals letdown. I scoop her up and carry her back inside, leaving the dying tomatoes to face the desert sun alone.
The nursery is coolerbut still warm, the blackout curtains doing their best to keep out the relentless light. I settle into the glider and lift my shirt, wincing as Eva latches on. Six weeks in and nursing still hurts. Not the toe-curling agony of those first days, but a constant soreness that makes me dread feeding time.
The lactation consultantat the hospital said it would get easier. That by now we should have found our rhythm, Eva and I. But everything about feeding her feels like a negotiation I'm losing. She pulls and tugs like she's frustrated with what I'm offering, like she's expecting something different.
I scrollthrough my phone with my free hand, reading articles about proper latch and nipple pain and oversupply issues. Everything suggests the problem is me. My technique, my anatomy, my inability to relax and let my body do what it's supposed to do naturally.
Twenty minutes later,Eva falls asleep at my breast, her tiny fist curled against my skin. I should enjoy these moments, I know. The bonding, the closeness, the way she fits perfectly in my arms. But all I feel is relief that it's over.
I transferher to the crib carefully, holding my breath until I'm sure she's settled. Then I hook myself up to the breast pump in the living room, the mechanical sucking sound filling the quiet house like some kind of domestic torture device.
The pump is supposedto be hospital-grade, top of the line, designed to be as gentle as a baby's mouth. But it feels nothing like Eva's nursing. It's aggressive and rhythmic and somehow degrading, turning my body into a machine that produces liquid for another machine to process.
I watchthe bottles fill with milk that looks thin and watery compared to the rich cream I remember from those first few days. Everything about my body feels wrong lately. Like it's performing functions for someone else's baby, going through the motions without understanding why.
Fifteen minutesof pumping yields barely two ounces. I label the bottles with today's date and time, adding them to the neat rows in the refrigerator. Insurance against the future, Adam calls it. In case something happens to me, in case Eva needs to take bottles, in case we need to leave her with someone else for more than a few hours.
But we don't leaveher with anyone. We don't go anywhere that requires more than an hour away from home. Our life has shrunk to the size of this house, this routine, this endless cycle of feeding and sleeping and changing and worrying.
I tryto nap while Eva sleeps, but the afternoon heat makes the house feel like an oven even with the air conditioning running constantly. The electric bill is going to be astronomical, but Adam says not to worry about it. Easy for him to say when he's in air-conditioned offices all day, meeting with clients who pay premium prices for sustainable luxury homes.
By the timehe gets home at six, I feel like I've been awake for days even though Eva actually let me sleep for two hours this afternoon. My nipples are raw and myback aches from hunching over the pump, and I can't remember if I brushed my teeth today.
"How was your day?"Adam asks, loosening his tie and opening a beer from the refrigerator.
I wantto tell him about eating too much and about how nursing still hurts, about the way Eva looked at me during her afternoon feeding like she was disappointed with what I had to offer.
